The Memories of Meg Giry: Behind the Shadows
by AngelofMusikReturns
Summary: Did you ever think Meg Giry had more to do with the story than mentioned? This her account of the Opera Ghost Mystery. Chapters are short and readable, storyline closely follows the musical. UNDER CONSTRUCTION
1. Overture

A/N I don't care how many of you are interested I will say this anyways. Lol. I AM IN LOVE WITH THE PHANTOM!!! Erik, he is the reason I am who I am today. I sing only because of him. Ok now that I said that, here is something about my book. I got sick of poor Erik always getting put with Christine. Ok, I can understand how that would appeal to people, that's what I always had in mind, too. Christine and Erik, Erik and Christine. But I read fanfic after fanfic and everyone tries to pair them up. I got a little tired of it after awhile. Why not do something different? I mean, that's what fanfic is, a different story. Kinda. So yeah, this is the same storyline of the musical, but I rewrote it, in my own words. Meg isn't the blonde dimbat everyone makes her out to be, and Raoul I HATE HIM is just as stupid as he always was. I didn't make him like that, I do my best to make him desirable because SOMEONE will be stuck with him at the end. Anything idiotic.blame it on the Vicomte.  
  
Disclaimer I forgot I had to have one of these. I refuse to believe this is not mine! I admit it. The characters aren't mine. The original plot isn't mine. The lyrics aren't mine. The changes are mine, and anything that doesn't happen in the musical is mine. As far as everything else goes, I will let you know as I go along. Trust me, if anything is mine in this book, I will let you know! But I wish Erik was mine sigh Well, read R&R please! That means read and review. That means read as much as you want then write me back so I will know if you like my story!!! Thanks! The Angel of Music  
  
The Memories of Meg Giry In the Shadows Overture  
  
Most of the people who have heard the story "The Phantom of the Opera" have heard a mutilated version. The author usually speaks from Christine Daae's point of view, or Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny's, or Erik, the Phantom's. Some have even written from my mother, Madame Giry, or Daruga, the Phantom's supposed confidante. However, rarely do you get an outside opinion. I suppose it is because no one knows, or cares, about the outsiders' perspective.  
  
I would not exactly call my position in 'the incident', as I call the Opera Ghost's reign, uninvolved. As Christine's best friend, I know more about her life, both before and after the Phantom's intrusion, than any other person. In truth, I, Meg Giry, had as much of a part in the incident as Christine did. However, because Christine was the main prey, my side has never come into the light, until now.  
  
You will find that the account of the Phantom and the havoc he caused, when omitting the unknown, imperative details, is quite tangled. Forgive me if my confession disturbs your preferred fantasies.  
  
And so with that, I apologize to all of the misinformed readers, and encourage you to read on and discover the hidden facts. I must warn you, however. If you expect to find the same tale you are familiar with and love, I would advise you to put this manuscript down and take up Leroux's or Kay's version. For those of you who are open minded and are willing to hear a different side to the Opera Ghost matter, pray continue, and enjoy my memories.  
  
Meg Giry  
  
Ballerina Prima Paris Opera Populaire 


	2. Chapter One: Little Lottie

Disclaimer Oh I hate this! sob why must my non-ownership be flouted in my face! ALW THANK YOU for creating this man!!! ALW DAMN YOU for getting to him first!!!!! Just kidding. I think.  
  
Chapter One Little Lottie  
  
My father left us when I was quite small. I don't remember much about him, other than the fact that he frightened my mother terribly. He was tall, and dark, and big; a tyrant who spent a lot of money drinking. Mamma told me that several months after he ran off, he was killed in an accident. She never told me anything about it, or spoke of my father after that. I must admit, I do not miss him. Why should I, when he was never anything a father should be? I had no relationship, no special memories, and for that, I confess, I am truly thankful. It would have hurt far too much to have such recollections of him.  
  
My mother and I got along quite well without him, anyways. Maybe, because of our loss, we were closer than the average mother and daughter. We were each other's only family, and personal confidante. She always gave me more respect than most mothers' give to their children, because without someone to tell certain things, it is lonely. Therefore, I grew up knowing the trials of my mother. In exchange, I told her all my tribulations. Indeed, this gave us a friendly togetherness instead of a parental tyranny. I liked it, and I think Mamma did too.  
  
When Mamma and I were on our own, she began teaching again, in order to support us. She also started to teach me. My mother's big dream was for me to become ballerina prima at the same opera as the one she used to dance at. She taught me with all the discipline and coldness of a regular teacher, even to the point where I called her Mme. Giry in the classroom. She also trained me with as much difficulty for a dancer twice my age and level. Luckily, for my sake, I loved dancing and learned quickly. By ten, I had master the art of ballet, almost to a professional grade, which was rather odd for one so young.  
  
The year I turned twelve, Mamma and I returned to Paris and the opera. Recognized as Madame Giry, she was offered a job as the new ballet mistress. Naturally, she accepted. When she heard there were some openings for the corps de ballet, my mother insisted I should audition. I declined, but Mamma was insistent. That was how I found myself in the audition room that hot August morning. I remember the ordeal as if it were yesterday; the hard, uneven boards beneath my slippers; the chilly atmosphere despite the heat as I stretched with seven other girls. I studied them carefully, nervously marking that they all seemed to be at least two years older than me. Mamma had warned me beforehand that I would most likely be the youngest, but I did not think the age difference would be that drastic. Two years is a big contrast when you are twelve and everyone else is not.  
  
Our instructors looked us over; our back had to be straight, our feet turned out, and our posture perfect. I felt like a horse getting inspected before being bid on. Next, we lined up at the barre and performed some warm up exercises. My clammy hand, gripping the barre tightly, gradually relaxed as the familiar movements calmed my nerves.  
  
Finally, we executed various combinations to some music. The movements were not difficult, and I found myself enjoying the soothing flow of music. Smiling, I remembered that I actually loved to dance, and threw myself into Swan Lake.  
  
All of a sudden, we were finished. Returning to the cloakroom, we nervously sat, waiting. A few girls introduced themselves to me; thought to this day I cannot recall who they were. After what seemed like an eternity, someone came in and called three names, asking them to return. With shock, I recognized one name as mine. Numbly I stood up and walked back into the room. Facing the judges, the two other girls and I waited apprehensively for instructions. 


	3. Little Lottie: Part 2

" Meg Giry." I stepped forward.  
  
"Have you prepared an audition piece?"  
  
Audition Piece? A dance? I had not. I wanted to sink through the floor, and leave this sudden nightmare behind.  
  
Instead, I nervously confessed, "Not exactly. But if you put on some music, I am sure I can improvise."  
  
This they did, and taking a deep breath, I began. Gradually I forgot everyone was there, watching me, and I strictly paid attention to dancing. Unconsciously I made sure my technique was perfect, my performance original, with no repetitiveness. When the music ended, so did I.  
  
Once again, I was sent to the cloakroom, this time alone. My cheeks burning with shame, I scolded myself for not being more prepared. In my head, I head my mother's words to me this morning.  
  
"Remember, you are only twelve. You have gotten so far with your training, but do not feel sad if you are not chosen. There will be several years and chances to join the corps de ballet."  
  
Tearfully I had asked, "Then why make me go at all today?"  
  
She had answered, "Because it is good for you, to audition. Whether you get in or not, it is a good experience. Do not worry, you will be wonderful."  
  
Well. I certainly did not feel wonderful right now. Tears threatened to spill as I sat thinking.  
  
Just then, the doorknob turned, and as one of the girls entered, I brushed at my eyes and turned to face my intruder. The girl was very pretty, I noticed. Tall, slender, with large green eyes, and thick dark eyelashes, she had a childlike appearance. Her long hair, which was dark as well, curled in ringlets and framed her face. Held back by a scarlet ribbon, they bounced as she walked towards me.  
  
Extending her hand, she smiled shyly and said, "You were wonderful."  
  
I accepted her pale hand and replied, "Thank you. Good luck."  
  
The young girls hesitated for a moment, and then sat down next to me. "I am Christine Daae, and you are?"  
  
"Marguerite Giry, but everyone calls me Meg," I supplied.  
  
Christine studied me a few minutes before speaking. "I don't believe I have seen you here before."  
  
"I have just moved here from Italy, with my mother."  
  
Christine nodded understandingly. "I moved a few months ago with my father, from Sweden." That would explain the slight accent, I reflected.  
  
Breaking into my thoughts, she continued, "You are quite pretty. Pardon me for asking, but how old are you? You look rather young.  
  
"Just twelve. I started dancing very young." Christine's comment on my looks surprised me, considering I was very plain.  
  
Christine smiled again, braver this time. She repeated, "You are good."  
  
Our conversation was then ended. The former ballet mistress came in and told us that both Christine and I had been chosen for the corps de ballet. Christine nodded as if she had known all along, and I serenely smiled, though inside I wanted to announce the fact to all Paris that I, Meg Giry, belonged to a company! After we had been told some regulations and instructions, we were excused. 


	4. Little Lottie: Part 3

I said goodbye to Christine and set down the hall, making my way to where Mamma was teaching a class. Knocking on the door, I entered the dimly lit room. The dancers continued their exercises as I rushed over to Mamma to tell her the good news. She smiled, then gave me a small hug before gently shoving me towards the door. On the way out, I nearly ran into Christine Daae. Her startled look turned into a friendly smile as she recognized me.  
  
"Meg Giry!" she said. "Giry, is your mother Madame Giry, the new ballet mistress?" "Yes," I replied. I was worried she might think that I would get special treatment from my mother, as she would be teaching our class of the company. If Christine thought it, she did not say anything about it. Opening the back door of the Opera House, we stepped out into the warm sunshine.  
  
"We are having wonderful weather," I lamely remarked, trying to fill in the silence. Christine simply nodded. I racked my brain, trying to think of something to say.  
  
"You mentioned you moved here with your father, what about your mother?" Immediately I felt guilty for treading on private business.  
  
"My mother is dead," Christine quietly remarked. My eyes widened in horror. Glancing up, she saw my face and said quickly, " Oh, do not feel bad. I cannot even remember her. That's partially the problem," she added more to herself than to me.  
  
"I.I am sorry," I faltered. Truly I was. "I know how it is, to not know." My voice trailed off.  
  
Christine nodded knowingly. "Of course, your father."  
  
Startled, I asked, "How did you know?"  
  
Smiling, Christine answered, "Oh, gossip travels quickly in the opera. Especially if its about an important someone, like the new ballet mistress."  
  
I stopped walking. We had reached our flat. Unknowingly I sighed as I thought of the lonely afternoon that stretched before me.  
  
Glancing at me, then the large clock above us, Christine asked, "Would you like to come home with me and meet Papa? He would love to meet you." At my hesitation, she laid her hand on my arm and coaxed, "Oh, please do. Its dreadfully lonely without someone my age to talk to."  
  
Gratefully I accepted the invitation. "I must leave a note for mamma, so she doesn't worry." The deed done, Christine and I made our way to her house, only a few blocks from my own. On the way, we exchanged pasts. I told her of Italy, the few memories of my father, and my intense ballet training.  
  
Christine returned the favor with talk of Sweden, her mother, and her devout love of ballet and singing. I also found out she was fourteen "Or near enough," she laughed. Within the short time frame we walked the three blocks to her house, we were firm friends.  
  
Upon reaching her residence, Christine opened the door. I noticed it was a quaint, cottage looking abode. White, with green trim, and surrounded by colorful, thriving flowers of various kinds. Inside was the most beautiful house I had ever seen. It was not grand, but it held a quality of elegance in an odd way. Christine led me down a hall to a door made of oak. From the room behind the door floated the most amazing music I had ever hear in my life. Full of light, yet sorrowful, it was filled with humanly passion.  
  
As it echoed through the house, I listened in awe. Christine quietly opened the door and entered the room, beckoning for me to follow. It was a large sunny room, obviously a study. Large shelves of books towered towards the ceiling, and in between, huge arched windows were placed, allowing warm air sunlight to flood in. A dark green, lush carpet stretched across the glossy wood floor, and an official looking desk was placed at one end of the room. At the other was a large fireplace with several padded chairs around it.  
  
At this end a man stood, playing an instrument. He looked in his fifties, with graying hair. He stood tall and straight, with strong hands and a handsome face. His eyes were closed beneath slightly bushy eyebrows, a large nose above a smiling mouth, partially hidden by a beard mustache. He was so intent in the music; he failed to notice our entrance. I looked at the magnificent instrument in his hands. The violin, made out of dark wood and covered with intricate designs, produced the smoothest, most crystalline sound We waited until the song was finished, then applauded for the musician, whom I assumed was Christine's father. 


	5. Little Lottie: Part 4

He turned, startled, then smiled happily as he exclaimed in a warm, velvety voice, "Christine! Come here, angel!"  
  
As Christine rushed into his arms, I felt a small stab of envy. Lucky Christine, to have a father, and one like that! Just in time I remembered her mother, and mine. Glowing, Christine walked back over to me, took my arm, and brought me to her father.  
  
"Papa," she said, "This is Meg Giry. She, too, is a ballerina at the opera."  
  
"Meg, welcome." His friendly greeting banished my shyness and truly made me feel welcome.  
  
Curtsying prettily, I replied, "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Daae."  
  
His green eyes twinkled as he looked me over. "You can call me Papa Daae, or Uncle Joe until you feel more comfortable. I can see that you and Christine will get along famously. Christine, why don't you show Meg your room before our story? Unless you two would rather play."  
  
Christine's eyes questioned me, and I answered honestly, "Oh no, sir.Papa Daae. A story would be wonderful, if you don't mind." With a hearty chuckle, he looked at me with those laughing eyes of his. "Not at all." As an afterthought, he said, "I reckon you don't hear many stories at home, Meg."  
  
How did he know? Like his daughter, he was very perceptive. But was it that plain in my eyes, the hunger for a father and a regular family life?  
  
I whispered to Christine as we ascended the stairs, "How did he know?"  
  
"Oh, it's just his way; Papa's so very understanding. He knows about people just by looking at them," she shrugged.  
  
Christine's room was very much like mine, with ballet shoes and a few photographs on the walls. Sitting on the dresser, arranged in a neat fashion, was a red silk scarf and several letters addressed to Madmoiselle Christine Daae. Next to these was a small photograph of a beautiful young woman holding a baby, a jubilant young man behind her.  
  
"Your mother?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Christine nodded. "She's beautiful, you look so much like her."  
  
Smiling Christine thanked me. "Well, we'd best go down to Papa and hear that story before you must leave. Will your mother have gotten your note?"  
  
"Yes, she will have, I am sure. She won't mind that I went over to your house, if that's what you mean." We galloped down the stairs and back into the study. Her father sat in a chair, reading a book.  
  
"Goodness," He commented solemnly. "I thought for a moment we had two elephants in the house instead of two ballerinas."  
  
Giggling, Christine reminded her father, "We are ready for the story."  
  
As we settled on the carpet, Uncle Joseph thought. "Do the young ladies have any requests?" he teased. I shook my head.  
  
Christine, after making sure I had no preferences, nodded happily and exclaimed, "Little Lottie and her Angel of Music!" I started, for this was a tale I had not heard.  
  
"Little Lottie! Now Christine, I have told you that hundreds of times. Perhaps Meg would like to hear a more familiar story."  
  
"Oh no sir- Uncle Joe!" His eyes sparkled merrily as I went on. "I should love to hear of her. Who is Little Lottie? And why does she have an angel?"  
  
"See, Papa!" Christine begged. "Go on." "All right," Uncle Joseph relented. "Now, lets see. We had best begin at the beginning, for Meg's sake." He took off his glasses and slowly wiped them, stalling.  
  
Playfully he winked at me as Christine cried out impatiently, "Papa!" I giggled.  
  
Putting his glasses back on, he began. 


	6. Little Lottie: Part 5

"Little Lottie was a young girl, about your age." Uncle Joseph nodded towards me. "She looked a great deal like you, too. A small thing, with heaps of golden hair, some in curls, some not. Lottie had eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, and they twinkled like stars. She was fair, with rosy cheeks."  
  
At that, he pinched my own. I smiled. "Come to think of it, she had a dimple right there," pointing to my face. "Lottie loved to sing and dance. She could dance as gay as a butterfly, and sing as sweetly as a nightingale. But-" He broke off.  
  
I leaned forward, curious. "What?"  
  
Glancing at Christine, Uncle Joe started in a singsong voice, "Little Lottie let her mind wander."  
  
Christine joined in. "Little Lottie thought am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, of shoes, or of riddles, of frocks. Or of chocolates, of sweets, or of summer, or spring. No, what I love best, Lottie said, is when I am asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head. The Angel of Music sings songs in my head." Christine broke off as her father continued in a normal voice, "You see, Little Lottie was very spoiled. Her dear mamma had died several years before, leaving a young papa to take care of Lottie.  
  
Being very rich, Lottie was given everything a little girl could ever want. Because of this, her head was filled with silly, nonsense thoughts; never sorrow, which can be good, but also never sense, which is not. It was said she thought of everything, and yet she thought of nothing.  
  
Her papa sent her to school, but she fussed over her figures until her papa was obliged to keep her at home and teach her himself. This he did, and Lottie was much more agreeable to her father than any of her teachers.  
  
Still, Lottie paid little attention to the important knowledge one must learn, and instead lived in her fairy dream world. Her papa thought that perhaps she would learn common sense as she got older, so while she was young, he simply let it be.  
  
However, she did not grow out of it, even when she became a big girl of twelve. Fearing he neglected her, Lottie's papa, anxious to prove his love, indulged her fantasies."  
  
Here I broke in. "That wasn't very sensible of him," I remarked, thinking of all the times Mamma had interfered with my daydreaming and fancies and how maybe I was better for it, after all.  
  
"No," Uncle Joe gravely agreed. "It was quite insensible of him. To make matters worse, every evening after supper he took Lottie into his study and told her stories, filling her head with more notions."  
  
At this, Christine and I exchanged glances and giggled. "Her favorite tale was of the Angel of Music, the story of a beautiful angel sent to earth to who taught children how to sing.  
  
Only those with a gift, a most wonderful voice was chosen for instruction. The Angel himself had a voice of gold velvet. It was the most extraordinary voice ever heard which could whisper enticingly or boom fearfully as Gabriel's trumpet.  
  
He could speak as warm as silk or as cold as ice, and his voice could be used as anything or come from anywhere."  
  
"Like a ventriloquist," Christine interrupted.  
  
"Just like a ventriloquist," her papa concurred. "He would start out singing to the child in her dreams. Then when they fully believed in him and proved trustful, he would teach them, when they were awake, of course. However, they would only hear his voice, never see him.  
  
"Now, the Angel of Music seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world to Little Lottie. She often daydreamed about the angel. As Lottie sang, she imagined the angel listening.  
  
Because of this, she sang with all of her heart, in case he happened to hear. When a person sings with their heart, it makes the sound a hundred times more beautiful and pure. One day when she was singing, the Angel of Music heard her.  
  
That night, Little Lottie heard the angel in her dreams. She couldn't believe her luck. Not only was the Angel of Music real, but also he had chosen her, to tutor and sing to her. Because of the lessons, Lottie's voice became unlike any other.  
  
"As she got older and her voice improved under the training of her angel, she began singing in the opera. When she got lead roles, people would come from everywhere to hear her voice. 


	7. Little Lottie: Part 6

Finally, she reached the top. She was one of the best singers in the world, and she had her angel to thank for it. One day the Angel of Music told her that he must leave her and go teach another child. Lottie begged him to stay, but he could not. As he left, he sang to her one last time.  
  
"She never heard him again after that," Uncle Joe ended.  
  
I sighed, "Whatever happened to Little Lottie?"  
  
"She continued singing, until she met a wonderful young man, and they." He waited for us to finish.  
  
"Lived happily ever after!" Christine and I chanted.  
  
"That's a lovely story, thank you Uncle Joe!" Glancing at the clock, I added, "I'd best get home, before Mamma begins to worry."  
  
"Goodbye, Meg. I am sure I will see you soon." Uncle Joe grinned.  
  
"I'll walk her home, Papa. I will be back before supper." Christine took my hand and led me to the door. As we walked, we talked about the story.  
  
"It's so beautiful, imagine, an angel who makes your voice so perfect!"  
  
Christine agreed, and then secretly confided, "You know, Meg, I believe the Angel of Music is real!"  
  
"Real?" I echoed doubtfully.  
  
"Yes. I believe in angels in heaven, so why not an angel of music?" She had a point there. "I always pray that he will visit me someday. Papa says." She giggled. "Papa says that when he is in heaven he will send me the Angel of Music."  
  
We came to the flat. "Well, I guess I will see you tomorrow," Christine said.  
  
"Thank you so much for inviting me over, I had a wonderful time." I gave her a grateful smile.  
  
"I suppose we will have to work awful hard, to catch up to the others. In the corps de ballet, I mean. We will most likely be the youngest ones there." Christine sounded nervous.  
  
"Don't worry," I said, sounding more confidant than I felt. "We will manage fine. Goodnight!" We hugged and parted, best friends. I walked up two flights of stairs, then opened the door to my home. "Mamma?" I called.  
  
"In here," was the reply. I entered the parlor, and found Mamma sitting on her chair, looking at a manuscript.  
  
"Mamma?" I questioned.  
  
"Just looking at my old diary. How was your day?" She stood, brushing my forehead with a kiss.  
  
"Fine. The audition went well. Oh Mamma, I was so nervous!"  
  
"But you did wonderful, of course."  
  
I smiled. "I met a girl, Christine Daae."  
  
"Daae? The name sounds familiar. There's a famous violinist named Daae."  
  
"I think that's her father, he played the violin for us. The music was." I was at a loss for words. How do you describe heaven? "Just heavenly."  
  
"It sounds like you had an interesting afternoon. I have a meeting with Lefevre, so you must find some supper for yourself. I'm sorry, Meg."  
  
"No Mamma, its perfectly all right. I want to practice for tomorrow, anyways. Have a good meeting."  
  
"Goodbye, darling."  
  
I sat and listened to the door close and my mother's shoes clump down the stairs. Sighing, I looked around at the apartment. It was very nice, but it lacked a certain quality of Christine's home. The flat was dark, with weak lighting. Chilly, with a distant atmosphere so different from the radiant, airy, cheerful villa. I envied Christine that.  
  
Shifting in my chair, my thoughts drifted to the magnificent story from earlier of foolish Little Lottie and her angel of music. How truly wonderful; the thought of an angel who could turn your voice to silver. I sighed again.  
  
Even if there were an angel, he would never have chosen me. In that way I was quite unlike Lottie, despite our similar looks. While my voice was tolerable, it certainly was not exceptional, with no special quality to attract attention' dancing was my forte.  
  
The clock struck nine, startling me out of my reverie. Aloud, I laughed and chided myself. "Meg Giry, sitting and regretting something that is no more than a tale, a fairy story. And it as late as nine o'clock? To bed, young lady." I often spoke to myself; it made the house feel less empty.  
  
I went upstairs and quickly changed into my frilly white nightgown; the day's events still running through my head. After performing my nightly toilette, I left my mother a note to come home to before leaping into bed.  
  
I snuggled in my covers and blew out the light. Sighing, I closed my eyes and relaxed. A thought crossed my mind; I had not said my prayers. I debated for a moment, determining the possibility of skipping them and still doing well at the class tomorrow. I decided I would not try my luck.  
  
Climbing out of bed, I knelt in the dark and quickly prayed, "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thine name." I continued on to my childish, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Blessed is the Lord, forever an' ever, Amen."  
  
Hastily I added, "And please let me do well tomorrow! Blessed is the Lord, forever an' ever, amen again." Satisfied, I crawled back into bed. I admitted to myself that I was nervous about tomorrow.  
  
The butterflies swooping in my stomach proved the fact true. But there was nothing I could do about it, besides get a good night's sleep, I told me new winged inhabitants. Shutting my eyes, I waited for sleep to come. 


	8. Chapter Two: I Remember

Disclaimer Well I own Meg's history and her audition, her and Christine's past together, stuff like that. Don't worry, Erik will come in, I just wanted to get the past straightened out. It helps to understand the characters when you know what has happened to them. Anyways. that's about all I own. Except my kitty pets Sara that's it, we will sit here, lonely, until our angel comes to us.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
I Remember  
  
Needless to say, I survived my first day in the corps de ballet, and several others that followed. Since some of us were new members, we had to wait a month or so before we could rehearse with the rest of the opera. We waited anxiously with baited breath. After what seemed like an eternity or more, the previous opera season ended. That day my mother (whom I shall refer to as Mme. Giry when at the opera) entered out class with a strange smile on her face. We knew it was time.  
  
That happy season, we rehearsed and performed Faust. Though we were unimportant ballet girls, Christine and I were even more thrilled than the Prima Donna was, so we said. Every performance was new and exciting, and afterwards we would go out, walk, and sometimes go to a café.  
  
We felt very elegant and grown up, and eagerly awaited our next performance. We danced out hearts out in front of the audience, and because we loved what we did, we greatly improved. I was pleased to find myself one of the best dancers, though it seems very conceited to say so. The truth was, I had been extremely afraid that on account of how young I was, I would not be able to hold my own. You can imagine my relief when I not only held my won, but also was chosen to for a special pax de quatre.  
  
Almost every evening Christine and I returned to her house to play and discuss our future. I insisted on being Ballerina Prima of the opera, while Christine decided on a Prima Donna. We teasingly imitated the Primas of our opera, until we ended practice in giggles. This continued for two more seasons.  
  
On our last day, Christine and I held each other and sobbed, even though we knew that we would be back after the summer was over. No matter how hard we had begged out parents, neither would consent to let us stay for a full year at the opera; each insisted we needed a vacation. Christine was off to England and the shore, while Mamma and I were returning to Italy. Tearfully we parted, promising to write. That summer, I received several postscripts and a few letters from Christine; faithfully I returned with epistles full of descriptions of Italy and my time there. The end of the summer could not come soon enough, but eventually it did. Upon arriving in Paris, we met each other at the station. Frantically we rushed to hug each other, then began chattering about our vacation.  
  
I spent the night at Christine's home. We talked late into the night. Christine had met a friend in England, a boy called Raoul. She had met him the previous summer at the same shore, when he had rescued her mother's scarf from the ocean. Throughout the year, he had written her letters, and they had had a glorious summer together, running about, swimming, and listening to her papa's stories.  
  
Her fifteenth birthday was spent out at a luxurious restaurant, where she had dressed up and had a wonderful time. I told her of my time in Italy, visiting hundreds of cousins, or so it seemed. I danced in an old villa, all alone and spent hours in Rome being a tourist. My favorite part was seeing an opera in Milan, and she agreed that was the best over all.  
  
We admitted the summer had not been as horrible as suspected. However, we were very glad the next season was approaching, and we ardently awaited the next morning. Before we fell asleep, we performed a sacred rite to keep us from ever parting; we became blood sisters. 


	9. I Remember: Part 2

The next year followed with the same pattern. Season after season we danced, sang, and game our hearts and time to the opera. We talked of almost nothing else; indeed our lives revolved around it. My thirteenth birthday came and went, Mother's Day passes with Christine and I taking my mother out to dinner; Father's Day departed similarly, when I joined Christine and her Papa at the park. We felt now that we were truly sisters, and life went on happily.  
  
All too soon, summer was once again at hand. This year, Christine and I willingly gave each other up, anxious to be off on our vacations and adventures. We promised again to write, then parted.  
  
Christine and I exchanged only three letters during the summer. I wrote her several times, but she did not respond. I worried perhaps they were not reaching her, or that something was wrong. Mamma comforted me, and we decided she must be highly busy and would write me as soon as she got the chance. She didn't.  
  
When I got home after that dreadful summer, I was heartbroken. Had I done something that had injured our friendship? Had she run away with that Raoul boy and left me, as I were no longer important? Several thoughts rushed my through head, my cheeks burned throughout the night as I waited for the opera's opening season to begin; alone.  
  
Only when I arrived and found Christine had not arrived did I really begin to worry. Only the most important and dire happening would have kept her from practice. I kept on thinking of excuses; she had slept in, or perhaps had a head cold. All day I waited anxiously for her to walk in, loaded with apologies and explanations. She never came.  
  
Running home, I threw myself on my bed and cried. Why, I do not know. I just knew something dreadful had happened and I had no way of contacting my best friend. So wrapped up was I in crying, I almost missed the bell. Rushing down the stairs, I quickly wiped my eyes before opening the door.  
  
"A telegram, for Mademoiselle Meg Giry."  
  
My heart almost stopped. A telegram? Who knew what dreadful news could be in it.  
  
"Me.that's me.I'm Meg Giry." I tried to gather my wits. "T-thank you." I closed the door without giving him a tip and dashed up to my room.  
  
Once there, I dropped the telegram as if it were poison and stared at it, dreading the news it held. I sat on my floor, breathless and shaky. Suddenly I realized how foolish I was being. It was just a telegram. It was probably from Christine, saying that she would not make it today, hoping it would have gotten to me in time to tell Mme. Giry. That's all. Slowly I bean to breathe, my heart began to work properly again. I reached for the telegram and opened it.  
  
As I began to read, I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. For what I was reading was this:  
  
My dearest, dearest Meg- I'm sorry I have failed to write, but All is not well here in England. Papa is dead. I will write soon. Christine.  
  
Monsieur Daae, dead? It could not be. The man who had become more like my papa then my real father, dead? Gone? Forever? Poor, poor Christine. I could not imagine how heartbroken she must be. I had no more tears to cry, so I sat in my room and thought until Mamma came home and found me, still in a daze. 


	10. I Remember: Part 3

"Meg! What on earth are you still doing awake? Why are you so pale? Meg, listen to me! Meg?"  
  
Numbly I became aware of her. I blinked; my mother's worried face came into view. "Mamma." I managed to say before bursting into tears. I reached out to her and she held me until my sobbing subsided.  
  
"Meg, what's wrong?"  
  
"Mon.monsie-" I tried to get the word out. "He. Papa. he's dead! Papa's dead!"  
  
My poor mother thought I was talking about her husband. "Meg! You know he's been gone for years, what are you talking about?"  
  
"Papa Daae, he's dead!" I began weeping again into her shoulder. I had said it, that made it all the more real. My mother looked at though I had slapped her.  
  
"Dead?" She repeated. "He's dead." She sat quietly.  
  
As I waited for comfort, and found none, I pulled away and looked at my mother. Sorrow and pain were etched on her face as tears trickled down. "Mamma?" I asked, amazed.  
  
"I. I can't believe he's gone." I looked at her face carefully. The emotion I found there shocked me almost as much as his death had. Could it possibly be?  
  
"Mamma! You. you love him?" Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she pulled a chain from under her dress. Hanging from it was simple gold ring. Engraved on were the initials JD. Joseph Daae.  
  
Quietly she admitted, " We.we were to be married next fall. We were going to tell you girls today."  
  
Everything was too much for my head. I looked once more at my mother, suffering maybe as much as Christine was, more than I was. I hugged her, and for once, she cried on me. I held her, stroking her hair as if she were a child. Pulling away, she wiped her eyes.  
  
"Meg, to bed."  
  
I nodded. Walking over to my bed, I pulled down the sheets and crawled in. Closing my eyes, I shut out my living nightmare and slept.   
  
My mother and I got through the tragedy. We were sent a funeral invitation, but we weren't able to attend. I doubt we would have gone, even if we had been able to. The following week I got a letter from Christine, telling how Papa Daae had died from a heart attack.  
  
She wrote, "I regret to say I shall not be returning to Paris at this time. I must stay in England with my nurse. Please tell your mother I am sorry, and I send my love. I will write to the opera myself and send my resign letter. I hope someday to return to Paris and the opera, and you. I will write as often as I can, and you must write me, too. Love, Christine." 


	11. I Remember: Part 4

Christine wasn't returning to Paris? I could not believe my best friend would be so far away. What would I do without her? It struck me how lonely I would be, now that she was gone. Without her, I would go home to an empty house day after day. I almost could not bear the thought of it. I sat, pondering this for days.  
  
Throughout the next month, I was cross, snappish, and lonesome. I sulked, to say the least. Life was not worth living, it seemed to me. Every fourteen year old should have something to live for, and I felt as though everything had been taken away.  
  
After a few months, I got used to the emptiness I had experienced. My mother and I were once again alone, and we bonded because of it. That year was the longest year of my life. Instead of joining friends at a sunny home filled with music, love, and laughter, I returned to a dark, empty, lonely flat. I wrote to Christine once, and she politely returned the letter, but we did not have a proper correspondence between us. After a few months, I stopped writing altogether, and threw myself into dance. It was the only thing I had left. As the year progressed I improved greatly; both in ballet and in life. Under my mother's firm hand, I perfected my dancing. After I turned fifteen, I began to get solos in operas. Naturally, I was quite thrilled with the improvement, which spurred me on to be even greater. The challenge of Ballerina Prima, now an empty position at the opera, impelled me to work harder than I ever thought I could. I think Mamma was pleased to see the change in both my dancing and my attitude, and encouraged me. Over the summer, I stayed at the opera and continued to pursue my dream; the summer flew by. The next year past in the same fashion. The bitter pang of the loss of Papa Daae and Christine had passed; the sorrow no longer controlled my life. Indeed, I rarely thought of them; it was better to leave such thoughts alone.  
  
My sixteenth birthday came and passed; I was given a pax de duex in an opera, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I looked in the mirror that night and realized I had grown up. No longer was I the gangly girl with freckles. I had to admit to myself, I was not ugly. Perhaps- did I even dare to think- I was a bit pretty? I smiled at my reflection, and thought that just maybe growing up was not so bad after all. On the first day of a new season, I decided to take a cab to the opera. When we arrived, I paid and stepped out to the curb. Standing on the steps, with her back to me, was a tall girl with dark curly hair. With her back turned from me, she looked uncannily like Christine. However, it was impossible, Christine was in England. As I approached the steps, the young woman turned to face me.  
  
With a gasp, I exclaimed, "Christine!"  
  
Startled, the girl looked me up and down. "Meg? I. I can't believe its you!"  
  
We embraced, then she pulled away and stared at my face searchingly. "You look different," she remarked. "Different, but very pretty!"  
  
I blushed. "Thank you. You look well yourself," England had given her a tan, and her eyes were bright, though they lacked the sparkle she had once possessed. "What has brought you back to Paris?" I questioned.  
  
"Well, my nurse has retired. Besides," Christine added with a laugh, "I am eighteen now, I can come and go as I please."  
  
What a long time ago it seemed since we were careless children playing games! Christine turned away from the opera with a sigh.  
  
"At least the Opera looks the same-although I can tell it's gotten a fresh coat of paint. Still, everything else seems strange to me." She sounded wistful.  
  
"You will come in, wont you? Mamma will want to see you."  
  
"Of course. I have come back to dance." Christine laughed at my surprise.  
  
"Back to dance? How wonderful! Where are you staying?"  
  
"On a little flat near the opera. It is closer than the old cottage. It was sold, anyways."  
  
I mourned for the dear little house that had been the location of so much joy. "That is too bad. What fun we had in that house."  
  
Christine smiled. "I remember."  
  
I continued on, "Remember the stories? Little Lottie and her Angel of Music? And the music and singing and dancing." I trailed off as tears filled my eyes. Brushing them away, I headed up the stairs. "We'd best go, practice starts soon."  
  
I felt exuberant; my best friend was back. She was a bit different; sadder, older, but underneath the same Christine. Mamma was thrilled to see her. All the old dancers were glad to have her back, as well. I prayed everything would be just the same as before, just like I remembered. But I knew that was impossible. 


	12. I Remember: Part 5

Several weeks later, we were in the middle of a rehearsal for Aida when a light set fell from the top riser, nearly crushing several stagehands. Joseph Buquet, head stage hand, rushed out onto the stage, yelling and ordering people about. Annoyed, Reyer stopped the music.  
  
"What is the meaning of this interruption?" He hollered at Buquet.  
  
Immediately Buquet became apologetic. "I am sorry sir," he began in his thick accent. "But the Opera Ghost-"  
  
Reyer cut in, "Enough! I don't want to hear your excuses or your stories, just get to work so I can finish the rehearsal!" The man's face colored.  
  
"Yes sir!" Buquet rushed off.  
  
Reyer looked around. "Alright people, let's continue! Starting from measure three." After practice, Christine and I walked to her flat. On the way, she questioned, "Who is this Opera Ghost Buquet made a fuss over earlier? I don't remember hearing anything about him before."  
  
"Oh," I laughed. "Buquet is quite the teller of stories. Anytime something goes wrong at the opera; lights, set, performance, he blames it on the Opera Ghost."  
  
"When did this start?"  
  
"About two years ago, right after you left. Buquet replaced Jaques. He.he likes to tell stories. All the ballet girls are fascinated with his tales."  
  
Christine nodded. "Are all his tales about.ghosts?"  
  
I shuddered. "Not all of them, but he likes the reaction he gets from the horror legends. Some of them are quite gruesome."  
  
"Lovely." We rolled our eyes. It was so nice having someone to talk to and laugh with again. I was in seventh heaven. I knew some things, such as our friendship, would not be quite the same as we had left them; still, we could become better friends than we had been before she had left. It was possible. I looked forward to it.  
  
The next few weeks were the same. We rehearsed together, than sat and talked afterwards. I heard about her time in England; how she lived with her nurse and how Raoul visited her often. I told her about the happenings in Paris; my new roles in the opera, the firing of Jagues and installment of Buquet, and of his outrageous stories.  
  
"Never fear," I ended teasingly. "Soon you too will be subject to this new form of torture. Indeed, I imagine all too quickly he will have thought up some new tales."  
  
"I must get him to tell me of the Opera Ghost, it sounds terribly intriguing."  
  
We ended laughing. Before we parted, we hugged. Christine whispered, "I'm glad I'm back, Meg."  
  
"Me too." 


	13. I Remember: Part 6

In the afternoons following practice, we visited our "I Remember Spots." A pond, parks, roads, and the café that we had played at, walked down, eaten at. All these held precious memories. Together at last, I could see this places without pain. And our laughter kept us from hurting at the thought of Papa Daae.  
  
Finally one night we sat at a café, and I asked her about his death.  
  
"Were you there? Was it painful for him, or quick? Did he say anything?" I saw a flash of grief pass over her attractive face. "I'm sorry, if you'd rather not talk about it."  
  
"No, no, it is good for me to talk. I must tell someone or I believe I shall burst."  
  
I nodded understandingly. Pausing, she looked out the window. It was raining out, a light drizzle from gray clouds, with sunlight streaming through the drops.  
  
"I was there with him. We were sitting by the fire, him in his chair, and my head in his lap -so- and talking about my mother. Suddenly I felt him stiffen under me and he gave a low groan." Her face turned toward me, panic- stricken, as if she had seen a ghost. " I tell you, Meg, it was the absolute worst sound I have ever heard in my life. I." She sounded guilty and hesitant. "I fainted dead away. I left my father lying there, dying, while the nurse went into hysterics and called the doctor. I am sure she thought us both quite dead.  
  
"After that, I woke up in my room, lying on my bed with my clothes still on. Cosette, the nurse, she was hovering over me, and she looked so worried. I immediately ran from the room straight to Papa. He was lying on his bed, with the all but one candle out. He was so white, like paper, and thin, and sickly.it was like being in death's face. So morbid." Christine shivered at the memory. "He stretched his arms out to me, and called me to him. I went to his side, but, oh Meg, not without fear. I knew, I just knew he was dying. He brought me to him, and I sat by his side, and he laid there, just staring at me. I could not look at his eyes, for fear of what I might find in them.  
  
"At last he whispered, "Christine." His tone was so sad; his voice, it was hoarse, and hollow. He told me how much he loved me, and how terribly sorry he was to be leaving me." Here Christine burst into tears. "He said he would always be with me, watching over me in heaven. And he-" Her words were stopped by weeping. I sat there, unsure of what to do, or say. Finally, the poor girl composed herself enough to finish.  
  
"He told me to be ready, to continue singing, because he would send the angel of music. And Meg, he told me this as well. He said, "Tell Meg, tell Meg I love her as my own daughter, and that she too should have the Angel, if she will accept him." He also asked me to give you this." Christine reached into her pocketbook and handed me a small gold locket, identical to the ornament she wore with her mother and father's picture in it. I opened it and found, on one side, a picture of me and Papa Daae, and on the other, a picture of a girl who looked so much like me it was frightening. I turned questioning eyes to Christine.  
  
"Who.who is she?"  
  
"Little Lottie. My father was not flattering you all those years ago when he said you resembled her."  
  
I looked once more at his picture, my arms around him and he holding me like a little girl. I started crying. Christine joined in. For several hours we sat there, crying, staring out into the rain, which matched the inside of our hearts just then.  
  
As time went on, it became easier to speak of our memories of Papa Daae. We would remember stories or jokes he told and laugh, or remember the way he scooped us both into a hug and chuckled in the drollest way. Best of all, we remembered his music, the one legacy he had left Christine with. His violin sat on the coveted place over the piano, in the sitting room of her flat. It was never played, for we both agreed no one could bring the music out of it like Papa Daae could, and we didn't want anyone to try. Next to it sat the picture of father, mother, and child that I saw on her dresser so long ago. A picture of Christine and me adorned the mantle above it. Sometimes, when Christine and I talked about him, I would close my hand over the tiny heart around my neck. Doing so brought this man, who was so close to being my real father, nearer than heaven seemed. Christine was not the dancer she had once been. She had not lost the technicality she possessed, but she lost the spirit, the love and fire for the stage. It was this that kept her from attaining special roles, and she remained in the corps de ballet as I continued to work my way upward in the world. She seemed to be always in a daydream, never paying much attention to the music, or instructions, or the people around her. More than once I had to shake her out of her reverie and warn of her approaching superiors. My mother at first was sympathetic toward her, but after several months, it became exasperating. "One who cannot pay attention does not belong with professionals," she claimed.  
  
I excused Christine with justifications, to my both mother and Reyer. Neither was satisfied, but they did not want to turn the young woman onto the streets without a job. Besides, when she was paying attention she was a talented dancer. They spoke to Christine, begging her to focus on the present, but it was as if she couldn't. It was as if her mind was taken with her father, the true Christine buried with Papa Daae. I had felt before that she might be hidden beneath sorrow, but now I was not sure. She was often in a daze, wandering around halls, and daydreaming. Some began to claim she had gone mad. I refused to believe such dreadful rumors. As her best friend, I also defended her. After all she and her father had done for me, it was the least that I could do. 


	14. I Remember: Part 7

One day, Christine and I visited the Rue Scribe; a cemetery in the center of Paris. It was there that Papa Daae was buried. I wasn't sure I was ready to visit his grave; after all, the grief was still very fresh. However, I knew that I was mourning too long, and that I needed to get on with my life. Perhaps seeing his grave would help me separate the facts.  
  
Walking down the shady path, I studied the terrain; a pleasant trail edged with thick green grass and sprinkled with wildflowers. Small trees dotted the lawn as well. The sun streamed down upon our heads as we made our way toward the gravesite.  
  
Neither of us spoke as we approached the stretch of dirt, still freshly turned. It was surrounded by an iron gate, created by sharp spikes stuck into the ground. The front was adorned with an ornament of iron made to look like cloth extended across, and in the middle was a death head, grinning evilly at me. Under the skull, the word Daae in bold letters stood out. I shivered at the ghastly sight. Christine gripped my hand tightly as we knelt next to the horrific gravestone.  
  
"Dreadful," I murmured. "Who put this here?"  
  
Christine answered, "It was a gift, from.from a friend. I know it isn't the most charming thing, but he meant well, I'm sure."  
  
We sat together, next to the tomb of our father. Memories flooded over us as we paid tribute to Joseph Daae. Looking around, I saw several cherubs hanging from trees, or decorating tombs. Behind Papa Daae's grave was a pile of skulls, real or made of iron I did not know. I shuddered once more at the irreverence of it all. A tear rolled down my face as I thought of the man we loved so dearly, underground, motionless, cold, waxy, and dead. I started crying harder, and Christine joined me. We sobbed, holding each other desperately. Finally we calmed down, and simply sat quietly, reflecting.  
  
Christine's voice broke into my thoughts. "Meg?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Hesitantly, Christine continued. "Meg, I think I should tell you something. Do you recall the Angel of Music?"  
  
I smiled at our childhood fantasy as I responded, "Of course. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Well. Meg, I. I have been visited by the Angel." Christine searched my face anxiously. I started to speak but she interrupted me. "Meg, please don't start with your sensible speeches right now. You don't have to believe me, but I heard him. I just wanted to tell you because you're my best friend and I had hoped you would be happy for me, as Papa would have been, if you could only believe."  
  
I was speechless. For a moment I reflected upon the possibility Christine had truly gone mad. Horrified at myself for even considering such a thing about my best friend, I opened my mind to her. "Christine, you are sure you heard him?"  
  
"Yes, Meg, yes! No one could ever mistake his voice for someone else."  
  
"Well, what does he sound like?"  
  
Christine's face glowed as she tried to describe it to me. "Oh Meg, he truly sounds like an angel. He has the softest voice, not quiet, but soft, as though silk would feel if it was music. It flows with the music, I cannot think of a word to express it other than creamy. One moment he is singing all around you, so powerful, and the next he is crooning in your ear, and his voice is still surrounding you.  
  
"He plays the most majestic music, it still haunts me. His voice, it coaxes you to come to it, and you try and try but you can't find him. Its like he is invisible.  
  
Meg, I wish I could have seen him, someone with such a magnificent voice must have the most beautiful face!" She ended breathlessly. "You do believe me, don't you? Oh, please Meg! Don't think I am crazy. I know, I just know its him! Papa said he would send me the Angel of Music. Papa believed in him, and you don't think Papa was crazy, do you?"  
  
"No," I repeated. "I don't believe he was crazy. Christine, I don't think you are crazy either. I just don't know what to think."  
  
Christine sighed. "Well, I guess that is all I can ask of you." She smiled at me. "I think we'd best go."  
  
Nodding, I stood and brushed my skirts free of dirt. Christine and I left the graveyard without a backward glance, holding hands. Such an experience had brought us closer than the younger comradeship we had possessed.  
  
As we departed, Christine hugged me, whispering into my ear, "Thank you, Meg. I could not have done that alone. Please, please promise you will be here for me. It's so lonely some days."  
  
"I will always be here for you, Christine. Always."  
  
We embraced, while the warm wind played with our hair and skirts. Flowers gently waved in the breeze while birds flew busily about. The bright sun shone down upon two forlorn girls, remembering. 


	15. Chapter Three: Think of Me

Disclaimer I OWN IT ALL!!! EVERYTHING! ITS ALL MINE! MUAHAHAHAHA. Yeah and then I woke up. I own. damn I don't even own the chapter names, they are all song titles from the musical. Well hey I own the new and improved Meg! Lol.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Think of Me  
  
"With feasting and dancing and song, tonight in celebration. We greet the victorious throng, returned to bring salvation! The trumpets of Carthage resound! Hear, Romans, now and tremble! Hark to our step on the ground! Hear the drums - Hannibal comes!"  
  
I waited in the wings for my cue, humming along with the music. Glancing around, I spotted Christine a few feet away, biting her lip nervously. "Christine." She looked over. "You will do fine, don't worry. Just keep your mind on the rehearsal." She tensely smiled. It was her first large role; I could not blame her for being worried.  
  
Suddenly I heard Reyer, the repetiteur, raise his voice. "Signor.if you please. We say "Rome" not "Roma."  
  
I giggled. Poor Piangi, he still had his accent. While the Spanish lilt was charming in his speech, Reyer was appalled at Ubaldo Piangi's pronunciation. Constantly he was fighting over diction with the operatic star. Piangi tried, but he would slip at some words, like 'Rome'".  
  
Piangi replied, "Si, si, Rome, not Roma. Is very hard for me. Rome."  
  
Suddenly Lefevre, the manager of the opera, made his way toward the center of the stage as Reyer began the music again. Dodging stagehands, he and two other men stood in the middle of the stage and gazed about. I could see the manager's mouth moving, but I could not catch what he was saying. Moving closer, I strained to listen.  
  
"This way, gentlemen, this way. Rehearsals, as you can see, are under way, for a new production of Chalumeau's 'Hannibal'." Lefevre cleared his throat and began, "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Some of you have already, perhaps, met Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin." Both men politely bowed as Reyer strode over to Lefevre and began whispering with him.  
  
While he was holding conference, the two strangers gazed about. I studied first one, then the other. Firmin looked about 45, with his light hair just graying at the temples. His small mustache and pointy goatee had not yet been affected by age. He had a thin, grim mouth and high cheekbones that gave him the appearance of looking down upon everyone. Steely gray eyes and a smart opera suit completed the man. Andre looked to be younger, perhaps around 30, and of better humor. His brown hair, neatly combed, was slicked back, and his green eyes twinkled slightly as he looked about. His mouth formed a rather lopsided smirk, and he stood very straight, as one does when trying to look as if one wants to make a good impression. I wondered what they were here for. My thoughts were interrupted when Lefevre loudly excused himself and his two guests for disturbing the practice.  
  
"Once again, Signor, please: Sad to return." Reyer tried to direct everyone's attention back to rehearsal.  
  
I saw Lefevre turn away and mutter to Andre and Firmin, "Our chief repetiteur. Wonderful maestro, but rather a tyrant, I'm afraid." I smothered laughter as the music began again. Moving into position, I concentrated on the measures as I waited for the words that prompted me to begin.  
  
"Tomorrow we shall break the chains of Rome. Tonight, rejoice - your army has come home."  
  
Quickly I danced out onto the stage. One by one, the ballet girls pirouetted around the three men, still center stage, performing the simple combination with ease. I tried to keep an eye on Christine, but I began to get dizzy, so I gave up and tried not to bump into the manager.  
  
Mme. Giry angrily stepped up and banged her cane on the ground as she said, "Gentlemen, if you would kindly move to one side! You are in the way, please."  
  
"So sorry." Moving aside, he declared, "Piangi, our principal tenor. He and Carlotta opposite each other so well. And Mme. Giry, ballet mistress."  
  
He confessed, "I shan't be sorry to be rid of this whole blessed business." He rubbed his temples and sighed. "It's a fine life, but the people you put up with."  
  
"I keep asking you, sir, why are you retiring again?" Firmin inquired.  
  
Ignoring the question, Lefevre continued, "We take great pride in our ballets here at the opera. Our dancers are trained from a young age, and the talented are picked out from the flops. Only the best, you see." 


	16. Think of Me: Part 2

At this point, the music had changed and the girls knelt around the stage as I danced solo. It was not my first, but certainly the most difficult I had obtained yet, and my favorite.  
  
"Who is that girl?" Andre questioned.  
  
Lefevre replied, "Meg Giry, daughter of our ballet mistress. She's a most promising dancer, monsieurs, most promising. One of our best, and only 16. In a year perhaps, I should be thinking of putting her in Ballerina Prima role, if I were you. The people love young Primas."  
  
Both men nodded and continued to watch as Christine joined me in the dance. We jeted across stage and began intricate enchantements as the music began to crescendo. Suddenly Christine fell out of step. "Christine, are you alright? What's the matter?" I hissed.  
  
"Christine Daae! Concentrate!" Mme. Giry banged her cane once more to accentuate her anger.  
  
Christine flushed and tried to catch up with the music.  
  
"Daae, curious name." Firmin looked at Lefevre. Isn't that Swedish?"  
  
Andre asked, "Any relation to the famous violinist?"  
  
Lefevre nodded. "His daughter I believe. She has talent, but her head is always in the clouds." Dropping his voice, he added, "Some say she went a bit mad after her father died."  
  
Firmin raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.  
  
I hit my final pose, then quickly rushed to the other side of the stage and knelt as the climax approached. The chorus sang as a giant elephant was maneuvered on stage. I smiled as the two stagehands inside pushed buttons and moved levers to control the mammoth prop. Piangi was hoisted up onto it and sang to Carlotta. The Prima Donna in all her splendor raised her arms to her love and answered back in operatic tones.  
  
Finally the chorus sang the final lines, "The trumpeting elephants sound; hear, Romans, now and tremble! Hark to their step on the ground; hear the drums! Hannibal comes!" Everyone clapped as the curtain swung down.  
  
As it came up, we stood and began leaving. Lefevre clapped for everyone's attention as the elephant left the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen." Mme. Giry's cane echoed as she thumped for silence. "Madame Giry, thank you. May I have your attention, everyone? Thank you. Now as you know, for some weeks rumors have been going around about my retirement. Well, I am indeed retiring. In fact, I am here only to introduce you to your new managers, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre." Some clapped politely as the two men acknowledged everyone. Carlotta pushed her way to the front and curtseyed deeply.  
  
"Gentleman, I am pleased to make your acquaintance." Her Spanish accent rolled with her toned voice.  
  
Levefre took her hand and led the Prima Donna to the new managers. "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now.  
  
Andre bowed over her hand as he said, "Of course, of course. I have experienced all your greatest roles."  
  
"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi, our Hannibal." Lefevre finished.  
  
"An honor, Signor." Firmin shook hands with the portly tenor.  
  
Andre turned back to Carlotta. "If I recall correctly, Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three. I don't suppose you could bestow us with a private rendition." A bit dryly, he added, "Unless M. Reyer objects, of course."  
  
Carlotta humbly bowed her head. "My manager commands, M. Reyer?"  
  
Reyer smiled and said, "My diva commands. Will two bars introduction please you?"  
  
"Two bars will be quite adequate, thank you." Firmin nodded.  
  
Christine and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes as we joined everyone one the right side of the stage. Sitting down, I murmured, "Here she goes. If they keep buttering her up as they have been doing, she wont get her hat on tonight." Christine giggled. Carlotta stood center stage, patting her hair, straightening her dress; full of confidence.  
  
Reyer sat at the piano. "Signora?"  
  
Finished with her primping, she replied, "Maestro." 


	17. Think of Me: Part 3

Everyone waited expectantly while the piano played the intro. "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye!" I cringed. Her voice, grand and thunderous, echoed through the theater as she sang. Suddenly I heard a noise and looked up just in time to see the backdrop come crashing down, nearly on top of the soprano. Everyone jumped away, screaming and shouting. Some ran to Carlotta, who had fallen over and was struggling to get away from the bulky material. Her bright red face was muttering unintelligible Spanish, and her mussed hair and attire made her look disheveled.  
  
"He's here! The Phantom of the Opera! He is with us! It's the ghost!" The frightened words of the chorus and ballet girls overlapped each other.  
  
"Cara!" Piangi rushed to Carlotta's side and glared at everyone. "Idiots!" he exclaimed. "My darling, are you injured?"  
  
Carlotta tried to straighten herself and maintain her dignity. "How would I know, I am not a doctor. Not that anyone would care if I was hurt or not." She looked pained.  
  
Lefevre quickly asked, "Signora? Are you well? Buquet, where is Buquet? Some one get me Buquet now!"  
  
Piangi roared, "Is no one concerned for our Prima Donna? A doctor, people! Someone call a-"  
  
Firmin spoke sharply, "Be silent! I'm sure a doctor is not needed, am I quite right, Signora?"  
  
"I suppose I shall get along, thank you." Carlotta acidly replied.  
  
"Get that man down here!" Lefevre hollered. "Chief of the flies," he added for Firmin and Andre benefit. "He is responsible for this accident." I looked up and saw Buquet, standing upstage. He looked confused, and slightly angry. In his hand, I noticed, was a bit of rope. Strangely, it represented a noose.  
  
"Buquet! What is the meaning of this? What is going on up there?" Lefevre sounded extremely irritated.  
  
Slightly embarrassed, Buquet answered, "Please monsieur, don't look at me! I.As God as my witness I was not at my post! Lefevre, there is no one there! Trust me." A hint of anxiety entered his eyes as he added, "And if there is, it must be a ghost."  
  
Lefevre shouted, " A ghost! Buquet, honestly, man!"  
  
Under my breath I murmured, "He's there. the Phantom of the Opera." I was beginning to believe in this Opera Ghost.  
  
Andre furiously turned to me. "Good heavens! Mademoiselle, will you show just a little courtesy!"  
  
Firmin looked at the ballet girls, moaning and exclaiming. "Girls, please! That is enough, I should think!"  
  
Andre spoke soothingly to Carlotta. "These things do happen."  
  
Fuming, Carlotta answered, "Oh, si. These things happen." Sarcastically she laughed. "But of course, Signor, these things happen." Suddenly she yelled hysterically, "They just happen! Well, I tell you, as long as these things happen, this thing will not happen! Ubaldo! Andiamo!" She tossed her head and marched toward the door.  
  
"Humph! Amateurs!" Piangi sniffed and gathered the singer's furs. "We shall see if she will be back this time, eh Monsieurs?"  
  
Lefevre looked nervous. "Well, I suppose that is all I can do to assist you, gentlemen. I wish you the best of luck. I shall be in Frankfurt, should you wish to contact me. If you need help or advice, Mme. Giry will be happy to aid you. Goodbye." He hurried out of the room. We all looked at each other, and our new managers. I felt rather bad for them, such an awkward start in the opera.  
  
Andre cleared his throat. "La Carlotta will be back. Do not worry."  
  
Mme. Giry look amused. "You think so? Well, we shall see, no? Oh, I have a message from the Opera Ghost." I gasped. My mother had a note from the ghost? She believes in him? I knew now that he was real. The ballet girls cried out in fear.  
  
Andre looked skeptical as Firmin announced, "Good heavens, you're all obsessed!"  
  
"Nonsense, monsieur, he merely welcomes you to his opera house. He commands you to leave Box Five open for his use and wishes to remind you his salary is due." Mme. Giry paused, waiting for the managers' reaction.  
  
"Salary?" Firmin repeated. Andre snorted. "The fool paid a ghost salary?"  
  
"Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month." Firmin groaned. "Perhaps with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron, you can afford more."  
  
"Oh, the Vicomte! Our patron, how wonderful! He is so handsome! We must work hard to please him!" The ballet girls giggled in awe. Christine nervously grabbed my hand, and I squeezed it reassuringly.  
  
Andre cleared his throat. "My dear madam, I had hoped to announce that myself. Indeed, he has agreed to become our benefactor, so we must be good enough to deserve his support, mustn't we?"  
  
Ignoring this remark, Mme. Giry asked, "Will he be at tonight's performance?"  
  
Firmin nodded. "In our own box, naturally. Well, you all had best go one rehearsing. I daresay you now have something, or rather someone, to rehearse for."  
  
Reyer spoke up, "But la Carlotta."  
  
Andre questioned, "Does she have an understudy?"  
  
Reyer shook his head and replied, "There is no understudy, la Carlotta wouldn't allow it. And she has never needed an understudy before. We couldn't line one up in time, the production is too new."  
  
Firmin groaned. 


	18. Think of Me: Part 4

I glanced at Christine, and guiltily stood. "Monsiuer." Everyone turned to look at me. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir. She has a magnificent voice, and I have heard her sing the part before." This was true, how often we, in the park, mocked Carlotta in her roles. This time was no different.  
  
Firmin looked indifferent. "A chorus girl? Sing a diva role?"  
  
I added, "She's been taking lessons from a great teacher." Christine gave me a stare that plainly said, if I make it out of this alive, I will kill you. "I'm sorry," I mouthed.  
  
Andre turned to Christine. "From whom, may I ask, madmoiselle?"  
  
Christine stammered, "Well, from.um.I don't really know, sir."  
  
Firmin disgustedly exclaimed, "Oh, not you as well! Fanatical people and a ghost, what an opera! What shall we do? Full house and we will have to cancel!" He writhed inwardly at the thought of it.  
  
Madame Giry stepped forward. "Monsieur." Firmin, rubbing his temples, looked at her. "Yes, my dear Giry?"  
  
"Let her sing for you." She smiled encouragingly at Christine. "She has been well taught."  
  
I pulled Christine up. "Just remember everything you have learned. If your teacher really is the angel of music, then you have nothing to worry about," I hissed.  
  
Christine looked dazed as she walked over to center stage. Reyer sighed, then sat at the piano. "From the beginning of the aria, then, Mademoiselle."  
  
Christine nodded. I held my breathe as the notes floated out once again, less grander than the first time. "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye." She shakily sang. She looked at me and shook her head. I nodded and mentally begged her, please Christine, sing the way you do for me!  
  
"Remember me, once in awhile. Please promise me you'll try."  
  
Firmin leaned against the piano. "Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves. We shall have to cancel; she can't carry the role."  
  
Christine glanced at me and suddenly found her courage and her voice. "When you find that, once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!" She had transformed under our eyes. Her voice, a sweet soprano, had changed the song and soared over our heads like an angel's. It amazed me; her voice had never sounded like that, even when we were singing together. She confidently moved about the stage, as Carlotta had done.  
  
Firmin's look of anguish turned to one of delight. "Andre!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps we won't have to call off the performance after all. I told you she could do it."  
  
Reyer stopped playing. Christine looked at me, astounded. I smiled back at her.  
  
"Mademoiselle Daae," Andre began. "You will sing the role of Elissa until further notice. Please go to your room and rest until the show. Madame Giry." She appeared at his side. "Will you please see the costume mistress about Elissa's costume. I have no doubt that it shall have to be altered." I giggled. The ballet mistress nodded and left. Everyone began whispering over Christine and the new managers.  
  
Firmin cleared his throat and asked for silence. "The rehearsal is now over." Reyer raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "Everyone should rest after this afternoon, before the opera tonight. I will be in my box. And do not forget, that the Vicomte himself will be attending. Good afternoon. Oh, and Reyer, I suggest you have a word with Buquet before tonight, about his job and what he should be doing." Firmin and Andre bowed slightly and exited. One by one, people left the rehearsal room. I myself waited, for I wanted to speak to Buquet before I left. Moving backstage, I found him over by where the accident had taken place, checking ropes.  
  
"Ah, Mademoiselle Giry. How is the lass tonight? Nervous, no?" Buquet always used strange language.  
  
"Monsieur, I am a little nervous. More so for my friend Christine than for myself."  
  
"Yes, the child Daae is to sing tonight. Well, much luck to both of you."  
  
"Monsieur Buquet-" I began.  
  
"Just call me Buquet, Mademoiselle Giry." The old man smiled.  
  
"You can call me Meg, then. Buquet, did you notice anything unusual before the accident?"  
  
"Unusual, Meg?" He looked confused.  
  
Nervously I continued. "Well, you said you hadn't let the ropes loose. And no one else had. So."  
  
"You are wondering who else could have done so, no?"  
  
"Yes." I waited.  
  
Buquet answered, "The Opera Ghost. Who else?"  
  
I had been expecting this answer, so I wasn't too surprised. "The Opera Ghost?" I repeated.  
  
"I have not told you of him?" The chief of flies sounded eager.  
  
"Well, only slightly," I admitted. "Perhaps you could tell more." I sat down on a trunk and motioned for him to do the same.  
  
"Ah, the infamous Opera Ghost," he began. "A most cunning creature. Devious, and rather dangerous, if not for information I have gathered about him."  
  
"Dangerous?" I asked. "How so?"  
  
"Because he has a perilous weapon on him. The Punjab lasso."  
  
"A lasso? How can a ghost use a lasso?"  
  
"Because he is a man."  
  
"A man? I thought you said he was a ghost?" I questioned bewilderedly.  
  
"Indeed, he is a man, and yet, more ghost than man, or maybe both. Perhaps phantom is a better word to describe him. But Opera Ghost sounds better than Opera Phantom."  
  
I nodded as he continued. "He uses his noose to kill any man on sight. He has a vengeful attitude toward us in the opera, no one knows why. He will sneak up behind you and by the time you have figured out he is there, its too late. That is why you must remember: Your hand at the level of your eyes. It is the only protection against him."  
  
I stood. "Thank you very much Buquet. I must go prepare for tonight."  
  
He bowed slightly. "Good luck, Meg." 


	19. Think of Me: Part 5

"Oh Meg, I don't think I can do this!" Christine tearfully blurted out.  
  
Sitting on the bed in her dressing room, Christine confessed her fears to me about the evening performance.  
  
"Christine, you have sung the part often enough," I replied, thinking of the times we made fun of Carlotta. "You could sing this aria in your sleep. And your voice has been improving ever so much."  
  
"Its different," Christine told me. "I haven't sung it in front of the Paris Opera!" She began to sound slightly hysterical.  
  
I grabbed her shoulders. "Stop. That's enough, just breathe. You will do fine, now don't think about it anymore. You're making yourself sick. Christine, I said stop."  
  
Christine looked at me. Slowly she said, "I.I suppose your right. I mustn't carry on like this; it's childish."  
  
Suddenly someone knocked on her door. "One hour until calls, Miss Daae."  
  
Christine glanced at me, then stood. "I had better get my costume, then."  
  
"Good luck," I hugged her hard, then left to get ready.  
  
As I made my way down the hall, I bumped into the new managers. "Excuse me, Monsieurs."  
  
They bowed. "Firmin. Pleasure, mademoiselle," the short, older man said.  
  
The tall one spoke up. "And Andre. As with I, mademoiselle. A pleasure." After a moment, he questioned, "You are one of the ballet girls, are you not?"  
  
Firmin exclaimed, "Ah yes, Madame Giry's daughter. I remember now. The. the friend of Christine Daae as well, I believe."  
  
I simply nodded.  
  
"Well, good luck to you and your friend tonight, Mademoiselle Giry." Andre bowed and left.  
  
I turned to go but Firmin stopped me. "You think." he paused, as though trying to find the correct words.  
  
"Yes monsieur?" I asked, waiting.  
  
"You think your friend can do this?"  
  
I laughed. "Monsieur, there is no doubt in my mind. She will be wonderful. Now, if you will excuse me?" I edged away.  
  
"Of course."  
  
I walked off. In my own dressing room, all the ballet girls were rushing about dressing, doing hair, makeup, and reviewing steps. I went over to my corner and retrieved my tutu. After slipping on the frothy white gown and pulling back my hair, I surveyed myself critically in the mirror. To myself, I did not look the part of a ballerina. I lacked the charisma and assurance I should have. Or rather, whatever presence and confidence I contained was squelched, mainly by the Ballerina Prima. She had a way of doing that to me, to all of us. But tonight, I resolved, would be different. Tonight I would shine in my solo. I vowed that to myself and repeated it all through warm ups.  
  
Five minutes until the performance, I again announced the oath to myself over and over. Suddenly I saw Christine enter, in her first garish costume. I waved and mouthed, "Good luck." She nervously smiled back, but seemed preoccupied. I sat on an old truck to await my entrance.  
  
Suddenly the lights went off and the curtains opened. The music came on and Christine's voice came floating through the air. I gasped. She was incredible! I had never heard her, or anyone for that matter, sing like that. All around me, murmurs of amazement and approval echoed. I sat and listened to her until I had to go on. I almost missed my cue, but quickly I ran onstage and began to dance. The next thing I knew, I was backstage again, listening in the wings with all the other ballet girls. Christine was on her last aria and was magnificent.  
  
"We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea. But please promise me that sometimes you will think of me!" Christine's crystal voice resounded through the opera. As she ended the last note, people stood and clapped vigorously. I myself clapped my hands until they were chafed. Blushing with accomplishment, Christine took bow after bow, a large fragrant bouquet in her arms. At last, the curtain dropped for the final time, and Christine made her way backstage. Everyone crowded about her, exclaiming over her. Christine took out single roses and handed them to the ballet girls. When she came over to me, she hugged me tightly.  
  
"Christine, you were amazing!" I told her.  
  
Christine smiled. "Thank you, Meg. This is all your fault, you know," She added wryly. "If you hadn't pushed me into singing earlier this never would have happened." We laughed.  
  
"Ahem." A gravely voice behind us called our attention. It was Monsieur Reyer. "You did. satisfactory, mademoiselle," he stiffly announced. Then he quietly made his way into the shadows. Christine and I glanced at each other again and fought not to laugh.  
  
A hand was put on Christine's shoulder as Mme. Giry kindly said, "You did well tonight, child." Christine shyly smiled and walked towards her dressing room. Suddenly the ballet mistress' tone changed and she announced sharply, "But you dancers! A disgrace! I have never seen such dancing in my entire life and hope to never again. We will rehearse." She banged her cane with emphasis. "Now."  
  
A/N Are you guys wondering where I am going with all this? It might sound rather familiar, just a book version of the musical. In a way it is, but I haven't gotten to the good part yet. 


	20. Chapter Four: Angel of Music

A/N Is this like weirding you all out? Am I writing too much? Let me know ok? I just got bit by the writing bug and I can't stop.  
  
Disclaimer I don't own Erik. He owns me! My soul! My voice! My heart! Hehe. But I own a lot of the stuff in this chapter. Really. Its my genius, I swear!  
  
Chapter Four Angel of Music  
  
I slipped away as the other girls began practicing. Making my way to Christine's dressing room, I caught up with her at her door. Her face was white.  
  
"Christine?" I asked, startling her. "Are you all right?"  
  
Christine's face began to gain color as she spoke, "Yes, I'm fine. I. I heard a noise in the corridor and it frightened me." She smiled shakily.  
  
I looked at her. "Are you sure?"  
  
Almost brusquely, she replied, "Yes I am quite sure." She entered her dressing room, non-chalantly looking about her. She appeared nervous about something, but I made no further remark.  
  
Instead, I questioned, "Why are you hiding from everyone? Really, Christine, you were perfect." Christine smiled again, more warmly than before. "Christine, tell me. Who really taught you to sing this way? Who is this new tutor?"  
  
Christine looked at me a minute, then said softly, "Remember how Father once spoke of an angel? When he died, I used to dream he would appear. And now Meg, when I sing, sing anywhere at all, I can almost sense him. And I just know he is here!" Christine's face took on a trance-like ecstasy look. As I stared at her, aghast, she moved about the room, blissfully speaking in a singsong tone. "Here, in this very room, he calls me softly. Somewhere inside, hiding. Meg, somehow I know he is always with me! Everywhere I go. him. an unseen genius."  
  
I could not believe my ears. What sort of trickery was this? I managed to find my voice and stammered, "Christine? Are you dreaming? Mad? You know that's stories like this can't come true. The Angel was just a story! A made up story! You're talking in riddles, Christine. And it's not like you at all. You're frightening me. Be reasonable Christine!" She had me thoroughly frightened. My sensible, down to earth friend was sputtering nonsense all over the place, looking like she was possessed. I carefully approached her, putting my hand out, when Christine burst out singing. Startled, I leaped back against the wall, my eyes wide.  
  
"Angel of Music, guide and guardian! Grant to me your glory! Angel of music, hide no longer. Secret and strange angel!" Suddenly she stopped singing and darkly murmured, "He is with me, even now."  
  
I approached Christine and took her hand. "Christine! Your hands are like ice!"  
  
Christine nervously looked around her. "All around."  
  
"Your face! Christine, you're as white as a ghost. What is wrong? Christine answer me!" I was border lining hysterical. I had concluded that Christine had lost her mind. No sane person ever could or would act like this.  
  
Christine whirled around and grabbed both my hands. "It frightens me, Meg!"  
  
I snapped to my senses. "Don't be frightened," I ordered. We stared at each other. I repeated, "Don't be frightened."  
  
Suddenly someone knocked on the door.  
  
My heart leaped out of my chest as Christine and I both jumped, startled.  
  
"Come in," Christine called out nervously. The door opened, and there stood Mme. Giry. "I trust, Meg Giry, you are a dancer." I nodded. "And, judging by your performance tonight, you are not perfect?" I simply nodded again. It was useless to fight with my mother. "Then come and practice," she ordered sharply. 


	21. Angel of Music: Part 2

Sighing, I headed toward the door, glancing back at Christine. She smiled at me weakly as I left the room. As I closed the door behind me, my mother handed Christine small white note.  
  
"This is for you, dear." Mme. Giry opened the door and joined me in the hallway.  
  
"Who was the note from?" ? asked her.  
  
She looked at me severely and said, "It is none of our business. Now, to practice, young lady."  
  
I took my place in line and we began to rehearse. I tried to concentrate, but my thoughts kept turning back to my friend. What was wrong with her? Was she mad? Had her father's death damaged her head? Or by some chance, was she right? Was there really an Angel of Music? Had he chosen my best friend to tutor? By this time, I had begun to believe in the Opera Ghost, was this any different?  
  
Of course, I told myself. The Opera Ghost sabotages. We have seen him at work. Whether he is a man or ghost, we do not know, but he exists. But the Angel? As far as facts prove, he is just a story tale, told to little children so they would practice. That is all.  
  
"Meg! Look out!" I snapped out of my contemplation in time to avoid hitting a dancer. Everyone glared at me. We would have to do the dance all over again.  
  
"I am sorry, I am not myself today. I am tired from the performance," I excused myself.  
  
"Mme. Giry, can't we practice tomorrow? It is late," Joan, a raven-haired corps girl asked pleadingly. Others joined in, begging to be let off. My mother raised her eyebrows at me, which clearly said, "See what you have started?"  
  
"Fine, you are dismissed. But do not come to me complaining when you are worked harder tomorrow, mademoiselles. Goodnight."  
  
Everyone dashed to the changing room. Some girls still had to change into street attire and take a cart home. I wanted to go back to Christine's dressing room, and decided to take a short cut through the foyer. Standing there, with his hat, was the Vicomte Raoul de Changy! My shock almost overtook me as I stared at him. The handsome young man looked to be about 20. I had not heard much of him. His elder brother, Phillipe, who was to inherit the title and most of the fortune, was the one everyone had their eye on. I could not see why. Unlike his dark brother, the young Vicomte had fair hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. He had a boyish air to him, mixed with regal grace. I thought he was far better looking then his brother, and I blushed as he nodded to me in passing. Suddenly he stopped, turned about and greeted me.  
  
"Mademoiselle, good evening."  
  
I curtseyed. "Monsieur Vicomte." I felt my face turn a fabulous red.  
  
He politely took my hand and bowed over it. Straightening, he asked me, "And may I ask the name of my new acquaintance?"  
  
"Meg Giry, Monsieur." Blast, why couldn't I stop blushing? I was furious with myself for being so tongue-tied. I knew he thought me a blundering idiot.  
  
He looked surprised. "Meg?" I had I met him somewhere? He sounded like the name was familiar to him. "Not the Meg Giry, Christine's best friend?"  
  
Surprised, I stammered, "Why, yes. I am Christine's best friend. But how do you know who I am?" He must know Christine, you fool, I rebuked myself.  
  
"I am an old friend of Christine. For several years, all she told me of was you." Raoul's smile was genuine now.  
  
I was flattered. "An old friend?"  
  
"Yes," the young man answered. "I met her at a sea side years ago. I saved her red scarf when it was blown into the water. We have been keeping correspondence regularly and we saw each other at the same shore each year. I haven't seen her for several years, however."  
  
Suddenly a vision came into my memory. The first day I had met Christine, and we went up to her room. Sitting on the dresser, there had been a red silk scarf. Arranged next to it, several letters addressed to Christine. I knew now whom they were from.  
  
He interrupted my thoughts. "Well, if you will excuse me." He continued on towards Christine's dressing room.  
  
I began to follow him, thinking. So this was the young boy Christine befriended so many years ago. Though he was hardly a boy now. And judging by his actions, he had fallen for the young soprano. I smiled to myself. They were perfect for each other. Suddenly I found myself at Christine's hall and stopped. Christine and Raoul would not appreciate my company at this time. Instead I ran to the next corridor and to the dressing room opposite Christine's. Sitting down on the floor, I performed the childish feat of eavesdropping. Pressing my ear against the wall, I strained to hear what would be said. Strangely, I heard a man's voice in Christine's room. Raoul could not possibly have made it to her room yet, unless he ran. The man's voice was deeper than Raoul's, and was singing softly, and yet with great power. Who was this man? Suddenly the voice stopped and a knock echoed at Christine's door. 


	22. Angel of Music: Part 3

"Christine?" Raoul called. No answer. Again he tried. "Christine? Are you in there?" The doorknob rattled as he attempted to open the locked door. "Christine! Angel!" Raoul's voice desperately cried out as he banged on the door.  
  
I quickly left the room and darted into the hall. I made my way as fast as I could to the corridor where Christine's dressing room was. Out of the shadows came Raoul, his face full of panic. Breathlessly he exclaimed, "Christine.gone. door's locked." He grabbed my hand and pulled me to her dressing room.  
  
I tried the knob; the door was locked. Raoul moaned. "Relax," I ordered him. "I can open the door, give me a moment and don't panic. I could not believe I was ordering the Vicomte around, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I pulled a hairpin from my curls and inserted it into the lock. I bit my lip and twisted, listening for the snap. Finally I heard it and the door swung open. Raoul burst in and yelped, for there was no one there.  
  
"Christine!" He cried. Frantically he searched the wardrobe, under the bed, behind the door.  
  
I stared at the scene. There were no windows, only one door, no trap doors as far as the eye could see. Where had Christine gone? "Once again now, where was the last time you saw her?" The friendly face peered down at me.  
  
I rubbed my eyes. "Monsieur, I told you. Only a few minutes before she disappeared. Right before I met the Vicomte in the foyer." All night the Opera had been surrounded and scoured over by policemen. Right after Christine's vanishing, Raoul insisted the police be alerted and ordered to come search. They combed the opera, and found nothing. For over an hour now they had questioned everyone left in the opera house.  
  
"And you Monsieur?" The questioner turned to Raoul.  
  
"Before I met Madmoiselle Giry, just after the performance. Only a minute before. No one could have passed us in the foyer without us seeing, and there is no other way out."  
  
My eyes filled with tears as once again I imagined possible fates for my friend, each worse than the one before. Looking about me, I saw my mother staring at the floor, a confused look on her face. Firmin, seated across from me at his desk, was talking to a reporter. Disgusted, I turned away. All he cared about was the publicity. I closed my eyes. I wished to get away from this nightmare, far away. Suddenly I heard Buquet next to me, muttering something. I leaned in closer and caught the words, "Opera Ghost." Of course! The Opera Ghost. Why not? It was a solution. If my mother believed in him, then so did I. Buquet must know something we don't, I mused. I vowed to talk with him the moment I had a chance.  
  
The next morning, I grabbed my opportunity. Amid throngs of ballet girls, Buquet sat, regaling them with horror stories of the Opera Ghost. I settled just behind the wings, on a small box.  
  
Buquet, his wrinkled face lit with pleasure, nodded at me before continuing in his rough voice. "His skin is like a carcass; old, yellow, and faded. There is a hole, a great black hole in his face where a nose is supposed to be. It never grew." He lifted the black cloth that served as a cloak to his face. His eyes grew large and hideous, and several girls hid their faces in mock fear. "His eyes glow, bright yellow in his repulsive face. But when he is angry, they burn a fierce red. He carries with him a rope, a lasso." The old stage hand held up a lasso and proceeded to loop it around his neck. Placing his hand in front of his face, he pulled the rope taut. Delighted, the girls clapped at the vulgar illustration. Buquet explained, "You must be always on your guard, for if you are not careful, he will catch you. His magical lasso, the Punjab lasso, has never missed a neck yet. Beware! And remember, your hand at the level of your eyes!" The show over, the ballet girls giggled and left. I stayed, waiting for a moment to talk to him.  
  
"Buquet, is the Opera Ghost real?"  
  
"Child, is the sky blue?" Buquet retorted. "Of course he is real. There is no doubt in my mind, for I have seen him. Some say he is the ghost of a man long ago who despised the opera and everything in it. He terrorized certain stars in the opera house, and sabotaged several performances. He was known as the Phantom of the Opera. People are beginning to say that the Opera Ghost is the spirit of his man, come back to get revenge once more. And it is not just the fancies of an old man who loves mysteries. " He added slyly, "Your mother has seen the monster, as well."  
  
That caught my full attention. "My mother? She believes in him? She has seen him? Why has she never said anything to me about it?"  
  
Buquet shrugged. "She does not wish to say anything."  
  
Suddenly my mother appeared at my side. "Buquet! Keep silent. You will find all too late that prudent silence is wiser than momentary pleasure of scaring young girls." Glaring at him, she added, "If I were you, I would hold your tongue." 


	23. Angel of Music: Part 4

Buquet smiled as charmingly as his old face would allow and answered, "My dear Giry. I have no need to fear. If the Ghost becomes vexed with my tales, I am under full assurance that you will put in a good word for me."  
  
I turned to my mother. "Mama?" I questioned.  
  
"Meg, forget everything you hear. The less you know the better. I do not want you involved!" Her face flushed. "Stay away from dark corridors alone. Don't go wandering off. Do not go looking for Christine. Don't." she trailed off. "Don't think I am mad, I only want to protect you."  
  
I stared. "But Mama, is this real? The Opera Ghost, is he-"  
  
"Marguerite Ana Giry! I said forget!" My mother stamped her cane and stormed off.  
  
I whirled around. "Buquet, what." He was gone. I pondered everything I had just seen. My mother apparently not only believed in the ghost, but also had met him. And she was frightened. That was enough for me. The Opera Ghost was real. Sitting, I thought aloud. "So the Opera Ghost is real. Is he a ghost? Or a man?"  
  
I wondered. "Why are there so many different unknowns at the opera? The Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, and now Christine's Angel of Music. What if." I stopped at such a profound revelation. "What if they are all the same? It seems rather strange that such three specters would appear at the same time at the same place unless they were all related." It was rather far-fetched, but I was beginning to believe anything at this point. I was sitting there, trying to understand my sudden discovery when it dawned on me. "Christine is missing. More likely than not, she is with her angel. And her angel is the ghost, then Phantom! I need to find her!" Forgetting my mother's warning, I leaped off my box and hurried to the wings.  
  
At the edge of the stage, I saw something move. Turning my head to look, I forgot to watch where I was going. I ran into a dark shape in the wings and fell to the floor in a heap. I lay there for a minute, my head spinning. Apparently, I had run into a large piece of scenery, or perhaps a prop. Maybe I bumped into Piangi's elephant.  
  
Carefully I sat up and stared at the form in front of me. "Who.who are you?" I managed to gasp out. A shadow moved closer. Did my eyes deceive me, or was the shadow sporting a full-length black cloak and dress hat? Did ghosts wear dress hats? Straining my eyes, I saw it was a man. And not only was he wearing a dress hat, but a complete suit. In his hand, he held a rope in the shape of a noose. I scrambled to my feet and backed away. Unfortunately, my sense of direction was off and instead of making it to the exit, I ended up at the edge of the stage. In the dark, I nearly fell off. The man stepped out of the dark and I saw his face. One half was the most handsome face I had ever seen. The other was covered with a white mask. One eye was green, the other blue. The mask covered most of his forehead, the right side of his face, and his entire nose. It sloped to reveal a disfigured mouth and chin. While I was evaluating him, I felt his eyes doing the same to me.  
  
Nervously I glanced behind me. The theatre was empty, just my luck. I decided to try again.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The man gave a slight growl in his throat. "And why is my identity any of your business?"  
  
My jaw dropped at the sound of his voice. It was beautiful. The voice of an angel. Strong and powerful, and yet soft and velvety at the same time. In awe, I replied, "Monsieur, I only wish to know who is wandering about the opera. There has been strange events occurring here recently and I do not think anyone should be drifting about alone." 


	24. Angel of Music: Part 5

To my surprise, the man laughed. I shivered; it was a frightening laugh. Deep from his throat, the evil chuckle floated about in more of a whisper than any other sound. "My dear mademoiselle," he began dryly. "I hardly think I am the one to worry about."  
  
The threat was so obvious that I became angry. "Monsiuer! Explain your words and then leave!" My face flushed in my fury, even though I was deathly afraid.  
  
He sneered as he replied, "Mademoiselle Giry, after all your mother has said to you, I should think you might listen. You seem like a sensible girl. You should have kept your pretty little nose out of other people's business." Before I could answer, he continued. "You have been given plenty of warnings, particularly from people you love, which is more than several others have gotten. At this point I would say, consider your destruction your own fault." I was speechless. I took a step toward him and suddenly I knew who this man was.  
  
"You.you're the. the-"  
  
"The Phantom of the Opera, Meg?" the man mockingly said my name. He bowed. "Indeed, I am. Or perhaps you would know me better as the Opera Ghost." He swept he cape and bowed again, more extravagantly. "Then again, if you are acquainted with Christine Daae, you might even dub me the Angel of Music." He began to laugh again. I took the opportunity to make a run for it while he was diverted, but his reflex was better than I thought. He whirled around, and, grabbing my wrist, threw me against a wall. I stayed, cowering against the wall as he deliberately paced about me. Seriously, he said, "Now, Meg Giry, we can talk. Is it true that you talked to Buquet about me?"  
  
"Why, I-" I stuttered, taken aback.  
  
"Indeed, so it is. I knew the old fool couldn't keep anything to himself. But I can take care of him later. How much has your mother said to you?"  
  
"Monsieur," I said. "My mother told me nothing. I assume now she did so for my protection."  
  
"She did. Your mother is a shrewd woman, and that is why she alone survives in my service. " I winced at the horrible words. "Answer me truthfully, mademoiselle. How much do you know?"  
  
I stood. I was tired of being interrogated, and I figured the sooner I told him everything I knew, the sooner he would let me go. Putting my fear aside, I retorted, "I know you are a man." His eyebrows rose slightly but gave no motion of answering me. "I know that you made rumors travel of you being a ghost to create fear in the minds of everyone who believed. So that you would seem to have an infinite power, and be immortal. I know you terrorize the opera for your own sick pleasure.  
  
"I know that you kill for sport, by use of the Punjab Lasso." Nervously I glanced at the mentioned weapon and continued. "I know that Buquet has seen you and started rumors. You are mad at him because he warns everyone of you, and you prefer the element of surprise." I ran out of breath and stopped, waiting for his reaction.  
  
With a hint of a smile on his face, he said, "Well. I see someone has been doing some research on me. Indeed," he slowly added, relishing the look on my face, "It will be a pity to have wasted such a mind. And talent, for that matter."  
  
His words dawned on me. "You wouldn't-" I began.  
  
"Oh I very much would. You see you know too much about me. With enough study, you might be able to predict my movements and counter them. At the height of your career, people might choose to believe you when you say such things. It is quite possible. You are dangerous, Meg Giry. Therefore, I am forced to dispose of you." Deliberately he removed the rope from his cloak.  
  
Quickly I blurted out, "Are you really the Angel of Music?" I had to distract him someone. Perhaps asking questions might save me. I had no doubt that this madman would not hesitate to kill me.  
  
Surprised, he answered cautiously, "Yes, I am. Why does that concern you?"  
  
"Are you in love with Christine Daae?"  
  
I could see his patience was wearing thin. "My patience is wearing thin, why do you ask me such impertinent questions!" It was more of a statement than a question. "You can stop trying to distract me, for I care not of what happens to you, a simple ballet rat!" He raised the lasso.  
  
Desperate, I countered, "Do you care about the feelings of Christine?"  
  
The phantom (for I had already started to think of him as a phantom, considering he wasn't a ghost and certainly not an angel) checked himself, startled at the argument. "Why should any of this matter to you?"  
  
I smiled triumphantly; I could tell he was in love with her. "I am her best friend. If you kill me, and she finds out, I can guarantee she will not find you as entrancing anymore." 


	25. Angel of Music: Part 6

I knew I had hit a weak spot. Furiously he spit out, "So what do you propose? I could kill you and risk her finding out that her blessed angel was the cause for her best friend's murder. Or I could let you live and risk you telling everyone in the opera about me. They might find Buquet's tales amusing, but there is a chance they could take you serious." He paused, weighing his choices. I waited tensely. Finally he snapped, "Very well. Your life for your silence."  
  
I nodded. "A fair exchange."  
  
Bitterly he turned. "Be gone from my sight before I change my mind. And mademoiselle," he added. "Do not stray into it again, for I might not be as forgiving the second time."  
  
I began to walk away. Suddenly my mind turned against me and for a reason I do not know, I ran back to him. "Wait monsieur!" Grabbing his arm, I said, "I could help you." As the words left my mouth, I thought, what am I doing? Quickly I released him.  
  
The phantom looked as astounded as I felt. "What are you doing? Trying to catch me? Play a trick? I assure you, child, this is not a game," he acidly said.  
  
"I know," I replied. "I but I know I could help."  
  
"And how is this?" the phantom asked. He looked slightly amused.  
  
"I could." How could I help? "I could deliver notes. Or spy for you. I could tell you whatever you wanted to know about Christine." I felt like kicking myself. What was I after? Something inside of me must have had an interior motive.  
  
"But I could get your mother to do any of this."  
  
"Yes, but Christine doesn't confide in my mother. Everyone knows my mother and the Opera Ghost are connected, no one would trust her. No one would know I am associated with this, working for you. Everyone believes me to be completely sane, I can go anywhere in the opera." On an impulse, I added, "Christine tells me plenty of Raoul, as well."  
  
He took the bait. "Raoul? That sniveling Vicomte?"  
  
"They were friends when they were young. And its obvious Raoul is in love with her."  
  
The phantom paced back and forth. I simply waited. "Fine!" he snapped. "You may be enrolled under my services. But understand this, if I find you have been disloyal." He left the threat hanging.  
  
I nodded. "Very well. What shall I get for my service?" What was I playing at? He could kill me in one movement.  
  
Livid, he hissed, "What makes you think your life isn't a satisfactory exchange? Your mother seemed to think it was."  
  
"If I work for you, will you teach me to sing?" I stopped, shocked at the words that came out of my mouth.  
  
"Me? Teach you to sing? Waste my talent, time, and energy on a no account, smart mouthed little ballet girl? Are you mad?"  
  
I shrugged, amazed at my cool attitude when I was at the brink of death itself. "I will give Christine and Raoul your respects at their wedding."  
  
The saucy words stunned him. His face contorted in anger, he considered this for a moment. With a snarl, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me off.  
  
A/N Cringes Don't kill me! Please! Meg is curious, and feels a strange pull towards him, can you blame her??? The Phantom wasn't giving in, but he would rather put up with her than Raoul any day, anyone who knows Erik knows that. Besides, he likes fun, torture, etc., and who knows what Meg might encounter? evil grin 


	26. Chapter Five: The Phantom of the Opera

Chapter Five The Phantom of the Opera Rushing through the dark, twisted tunnels and corridors, I suddenly became aware of my position. Me, timid little Meg Giry, working for the Opera Ghost, supposed murderer, kidnapper, and tormenter of the Paris Opera. I was following him to his lair, where, with very little trouble, he could dispose of me.  
  
An abrupt feeling of panic overtook my and my stomach clenched nervously as I fought to keep up. At the rate we were traveling, I would rather pursue this phantom than be lost in this gloomy maze myself.  
  
Breathlessly I gasped, "W-where are we going?"  
  
I received no answer in return, just a small jerk on my arm. Turning a sharp corner, the masked stranger halted before me, causing me to run into him. Quickly I back away and waited. The Phantom, as I called him in my head, stepped into a small boat and turned around, looking at me expectantly.  
  
My eyes, better adjusted to the light than before, blinked in surprise as I examined my surroundings. I had not known a lake was down here! Yet, low and behold, an underground lake.  
  
Quickly I stepped into the craft and sat down. As we moved farther into the mist, candles shown out in the dark. A minute later, the boat bumped against shore and I leaped out. To my surprise, before me was a grand house. I followed the Phantom inside of it.  
  
A dark room, lit by candles, awaited us. My eyes, now adjusted to the dark, took everything in. I wondered if I was the only person who had seen this and lived to tell about it. Suddenly I wondered if indeed I would live to tell about it. Like it or not, I was at this madman's mercy.  
  
His voice cut into the silence sharply. "My humble abode. I trust you will find it comfortable?"  
  
Though the words were polite, the tone struck me as insolent and hateful. I dare not answer, I dare not ignore.  
  
Finally I stammered, "I-its fine."  
  
Spinning about, his white mask glinted in the candlelight as I caught his glare.  
  
"Fine? It is more than fine! It is a masterpiece!" Stepping closer, he breathed, "Do you know who constructed the very Opera House above us? The basement? Everything below?"  
  
I shook my head, terrified.  
  
"It was I! Everything that has been taken for granted! You think anyone else but I could have accomplished such a feat? Of course not." The man ended bitterly. He turned again to face the wall, breathing hard.  
  
I slowly backed away till my back hit the wall. My eyes wide, I stared at my captor. This was the man I was to serve? How had I gotten myself into such a predicament?  
  
I wished I could turn back time and escape from this nightmare, but there was no turning back. I thought back to earlier, when I feigned bravery. He was shocked that I stood up to him. Perhaps if I could find that bravery, or rather, bravado, I would find myself alive at the end of the evening.  
  
Gathering every ounce of courage I possessed, I went up to the man, and placing my hand on his arm, questioned boldly, "Who are you?"  
  
Slowly he turned his haunted eyes upon me. A strange look crossed his face, and I could not tell in the poor light whether he was trying not to laugh, or merely sneering at me.  
  
"You are mine now. My servant. Only under my most extreme confidence will you ever learn anything, and only my extreme trust can earn you that." He stared at me, piercing me with his gaze.  
  
"Should you prove to be as faithful as your mother, though she acts mostly under fear, I will consider enlightening you on certain details. Until then, understand your place under my employment is not one of friendship, but of service."  
  
I nodded in agreement. Did I dare do anything else?  
  
"Do you have a name? What must I call you?" Surely, I could not call him 'The Phantom'.  
  
He paused for a moment. "Your mother calls me 'Monsieur'. That should be enough for you."  
  
"You have a name, no?"  
  
"I have a name, yes. However, I do not need to provide you with it." Is voiced edged slightly, and I decided to stop pestering him with questions.  
  
"Now. To bind your contract, I will give you your first lesson. Then you will run an errand for me. Come!" He beckoned for me to follow him. Trailing behind, but not too close, I entered a large room with the best light in I had seen in hours.  
  
Blinking rapidly, I saw the largest piano in France sitting before me. Carved delicately on spindly legs, black with deep-toned brown highlights, and creamy silken keys, its beauty was astounding. Even I, who detested every piano lesson I took, felt my fingers ache to touch the find instrument, to skim along the work of art.  
  
Monsieur sat down at it and quickly warmed his fingers. I merely looked on, staring about the room. A large trunk caught my eye. What would he keep in there? Dead bodies? I shuddered. His voice broke into my thoughts.  
  
"Mademoiselle, we shall begin." I inched towards the piano and my teacher. My teacher, the angel of music! Suddenly Papa Daae's words flew back to me.  
  
"Tell Meg, tell Meg I love her as my own daughter, and that she too should have the Angel, if she will accept him."  
  
Was this possible? Indeed, it was a reality, for Monsieur was now glaring at me in frustration.  
  
Condescendingly he hissed, "Do not waste my time. Come prepared to sing, or do not sing at all. Now," he continued in a deadly calm voice. "You will sing the aria from 'Hannibal'. Think of me, on the E note. One, two, and-"  
  
I opened my mouth and barely whispered the opening line.  
  
"No, no!" He roared. "I do not need a mouse as my student! I refuse to have you squeak and timid. Whether you sing on key or as flat as paper, sing loud and sing strong! Now again!  
  
I raised my voice and tried again. "Think of me, think of me fondly when-"  
  
The keys crashed. "Blast it! I did not ask for Carlotta! Think clear, simple, and crystalline, like Christine's voice. And for God's sake, girl, breathe! A deep breathe, now. No! Not from your lungs, from your diaphragm!"  
  
And so my first lesson began. Finally, it was over. I excused myself and hurried towards the door, but Monsieur called me back.  
  
"I wish these two to be delivered promptly to the managers' office. You will place them on the desk in their absence, under no one's observation. The others shall be placed in the proper accommodations. You will tell no one, either about the author or about your connection. You will merely be a spectator like everyone else. Understood?"  
  
Saying this, he handed me four folded notes. On one, the name 'M. Firmin', on another, 'M. Andre', on yet another, 'Vicomte de Chagny', and the last 'Madame Carlotta'. I glanced at them, wondering what was on the inside.  
  
Reading my thoughts, Monsieur added, "You shall not read them." I nodded absently, eager to be out of his sight, but he was not finished. "You are now free to use the boat on the lake as often as our meetings occur. Should I need you at a different time other then our scheduled lesson, you will know."  
  
The unsaid threat hung in the air as I took in the meaning. Must I live in daily horror that the man will snatch me? "Now, go." I left, quickly. I paused at the water, remember the way back. Then I settled in the boat and read the letters.  
  
First, I opened Firmin's. It said:  
  
"Dear Firmin, Just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. Twenty thousand a month, in case you were not informed. Send it care of the Opera Ghost, Madame Giry will know what to do with it. No-one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed! O.G"  
  
I gasped at my mother's name. So she had been telling the truth! Ripping open Andre's, I found a similar message:  
  
"Dear Andre, What a charming gala! Christine enjoyed a great success! I were hardly disturbed with Carlotta's absence, Indeed, I enjoyed it greatly. In the future I suggest Christine Daae be cast as a larger role. Oh yes, the chorus was entrancing, but the dancing was a lamentable mess! O.G"  
  
Indignantly I folded the letters up. The dancing, a mess! Indeed, we all worked very hard, and anyone who knew ballet could tell.  
  
Suddenly the boat reached land. I followed the twisted path back to the origin and opened the door. I was shocked to find myself at the Rue Scribe, near the back of the Opera House. The sky was dark now, and the stars bravely tried to shine through the heavy fog that had fallen.  
  
I sighed and returned to the Opera House. After making my deliveries, I headed home. On my way, I stopped by Christine's house and asked the maid if she was home.  
  
"Qui, Madame Daae returned not short of 3 hours ago. However, I regret to tell you, Mademoiselle, she is asleep now. I can leave a message you were here, no?"  
  
I smiled, relieved. "No, that won't be necessary. Thank you." The maid bobbed a curtsey and closed the door.  
  
At least she is home safe, I thought. Thinking of the past few hours, I walked home. 


	27. The Phantom of the Opera: Part 2

The next morning, I nervously stood outside of the managers' office, listening carefully. So far, they had not read the letters. I greatly wondered at their reactions when they did.  
  
My thoughts ran back to last night. It all seemed so much like a dream, that I couldn't quite believe it all. But I know I delivered the notes. And I know I felt different this morning. I think my voice sounded better already as well. Could Monsieur change someone's voice that quickly? I didn't know.  
  
Suddenly, on the other the side of the door, I heard an enraged voice exclaim, "What is this!" A servant came rushing to the office as the door opened.  
  
Firmin bellowed, "Get Mme. Giry this instant!" I cringed.  
  
Seeing me standing there, the furious mad grabbed my arm and pulled me into the small room. Andre was sitting on a chair, re-reading a note. Firmin turned me around and said, "You're Mme. Giry's daughter, are you not?"  
  
I tried to keep my voice steady as I replied, "I-I am."  
  
"Then perhaps you will know what this is all about." He threw the note at me.  
  
Pretending to read it, I stammered, "I know nothing about my mother's business, Monsieur. Nor of the Opera Ghost's."  
  
Firmin's lips curled as he replied, "Indeed."  
  
Andre finished the note and flung it away. "Damnable! A perfect finale after the morning's paper." At the questioning look on my face, he continued, "Reviews about La Carlotta's resignation and Miss Daae's disappearance. Scandalous! And it's all over the papers. What next?"  
  
Firmin replied soothingly, "Patience, my dear Andre. It's all publicity! La Carlotta will eturn, and Madmoiselle Daae will pop up in a day or two." His tone changed as he said, "I am rather put out by this Opera Ghost business, however. I will discover the origin of this jest and end it immediately."  
  
I shivered at his manner. Would I be discovered?  
  
Just then the door opened and the servant returned, with my mother in tow. Pulling herself up to her full height, she demanded, "What is the meaning of this? Why do you wish to see me, and in such a fashion?"  
  
"For this reason, Giry!" Firmin practically snarled. He shoved a note under her nose and shook it. "Threatening notes, signed by non other than your infamous Opera Ghost." Dropping his voice, he added, "Now I pride myself on my sense of humor, but I do not find this amusing."  
  
My mother's face turned red as she hissed, "Are you insinuating, Monsieur, that I had anything to do with this prank?" Before he could answer, she went on. "I should hope not. Because if you do, you will find yourself very wrong indeed."  
  
I felt myself blushing. If anyone discovered my involvement, I feared it would not go well at all. Firmin glared at Mama, and he began to say something when the door flew open and in burst the Vicomte. My mother stormed out.  
  
Wildly waving a sheet of paper, Raoul cried breathlessly, "Where is she? What have you done with her?"  
  
Firmin eyed the paper as Andre questioned politely, "Done with who, my good Vicomte?"  
  
Regaining his breath and his dignity, Raoul repeated, "Where is she? I mean Christine Daae!" He brandished the letter under Firmin's nose. "I believe you wrote this, Monsieur? Well, I do not know your objection, but I daresay this is not amusing! Now tell me, what have you done with her?"  
  
Andre stood, his jaw clenched, as he replied, "Monsieur, we are as puzzled as you are by Miss Daae's disappearance."  
  
Raoul narrowed his eyes. "Then you ardently protest you wrote this note?"  
  
He handed the small slip of paper to Firmin, who read:  
  
Do not worry about Miss Daae She is with the Angel of Music Learning her music, and is quite safe Do not attempt to see her again It would not go well for you.  
  
bit my lip nervously as Firmin and Andre glanced at each other. Raoul sank into a chair behind me, his head in his hands.  
  
The climax was yet to come. In barged Carlotta, in a flurry of feathers. She demanded, "Where is your patron?"  
  
Andre ignored the question and smiled, "Ah, La Carlotta, welcome back!"  
  
Carlotta's face turned red as she spotted Raoul. "You!" She pointed her finger at the Vicomte as he rose from his seat. "I received your letter today and I must say I am very put out by it!"  
  
Raoul sounded annoyed as he asked, "What letter is this, Madame?"  
  
Carlotta handed him the note. "Read it, then."  
  
Raoul read aloud: Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered, There is one who can take your place. Christine Daae will take your part tonight. If you do not agree to this, A great misfortune shall befall you.  
  
I rested my head on my knees. This was getting me into deeper trouble than I had expected.  
  
Firmin mused, "Very strange, most of these mysterious notes mention Christine Daae. In fact, all I have heard since I came to this opera was Miss Daae's name."  
  
Someone knocked on the door. My mother entered, and glanced about the room before announcing, "Christine Daae has returned." 


	28. The Phantom of the Opera: Part 3

"Returned? Returned from where?" Raoul exclaimed.  
  
"The little fox! Where was she hiding?" Carlotta bellowed.  
  
Andre demanded, "Where has she been? We have been dealing with the news and a diva's disappearance is not an easy thing to explain-"  
  
Carlotta nearly turned purple. "Diva?" She cried. "You call that unprofessional mouse a diva?"  
  
Quietly my mother announced, "I have a note."  
  
Firmin nervously eyed my mother. "Let me see it!" He added quickly, "Please."  
  
He read: "My dear gentleman: I have now sent you  
  
several notes containing instructions on how  
  
my theater is to be handled. You have not  
  
followed them; however, I shall give you one  
  
last chance. Christine Daae has been returned.  
  
However, I have her career in interest. Her parts  
  
must increase distinctively or I shall interfere  
  
once more. You will place Miss Daae in the role  
  
of Countess. Carlotta shall play the pageboy.  
  
I find this change very appealing. You will see  
  
it done. I shall be watching from Box Five; see to  
  
it that it is kept empty. Should you ignore my  
  
request, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.  
  
I remain your obedient servant,  
  
O.G.  
  
After a moment of silence, everyone began yelling.  
  
"Christine! The Vicomte is her lover, no doubt he is helping her rise to a star! I defy this ploy and demand it stopped!" Carlotta shrieked.  
  
Raoul sarcastically replied, "Indeed." Turning to the managers, he demanded, "What's all this nonsense?"  
  
Burying his head, Andre groaned. "What next? What a joke."  
  
"This changes nothing! No ghost will order us in our opera!" Firmin hastily exclaimed to Carlotta. "Miss Daae will be playing the pageboy. You maintain the lead, Signora."  
  
Carlotta bristled. "You say this only to please me, Monsieur. I refuse to be placated!"  
  
My mother's face became distant as she murmured, "The Angel sees, the Angel knows."  
  
"Have I done anything to offend Christine? Is she avoiding me? What is wrong?" Raoul questioned himself.  
  
I rubbed my head. It was too much chaos for me to handle. As I stood, ready to walk out, Firmin and Andre actually got on their knees to La Carlotta.  
  
"My dearest Signora. Your public needs you. And- we need you too. You are our only star. Come back to us." Firmin begged.  
  
Carlotta's lip curled as she cynically asked, "Would you not rather have your precious little ingénue?"  
  
Andre quickly cried out, "No! You, Madame. We want you."  
  
After a pause, Carlotta sighed heavily. "Very well. This star shall shine again!" She announce dramatically. I rolled my eyes.  
  
In the corner, Mme. Giry was still muttering something about Christine and an angel. Raoul was sitting, pondering over what he did wrong.  
  
Meanwhile Andre and Firmin were whispering together. "Perhaps he slept with her."  
  
"It is possible, for him to then demur for her reputation."  
  
"And career. Quite the opera, indeed, Andre?"  
  
I rushed out of the room. They did not understand they were dealing with a genius of a madman. Angels, suitors, publicity. They did not understand!   
  
That morning, I called on Christine. She was lying on her bed, her curls spread over the pillow, and looking slightly ill. Worriedly I asked, "Are you feeling well?"  
  
She smiled. "Quite well, Meg. But." She suddenly frowned. "I have something on my mind."  
  
I pulled up a chair as Christine pushed herself into a sitting position. "What is it?" I leaned closer. "Is it about your angel?"  
  
Christine laughed nervously as she played with the lacey frill of her nightgown. "So you believe in him now, do you?"  
  
"Well- I- um- yes" I stammered. "But I thought, perhaps, that he had." I trailed off.  
  
Christine raised an eyebrow. "Thought that he had something to do with my whereabouts?"  
  
I blushed. "Yes."  
  
Christine looked at me for a moment, then sighed. "I cannot keep it from you, Meg. I met him."  
  
"Your teacher?" I breathed. So she had met Monsieur!  
  
She nodded. "Yes. He came to me through my mirror. It was so strange, right after Raoul- the Vicomte left-"  
  
I nodded. "Yes, I know." Suddenly I panicked. She did not know I had eavesdropped!  
  
Puzzled, Christine repeated, "You know?"  
  
Wildly I searched for an excuse. "Yes, he.told me after you disappeared."  
  
This apparently satisfied her, for she continued. "I heard a voice, it came from my mirror. I turned around, and there was a bright light, and suddenly I found myself in darkness with a man!  
  
"He was handsome, but half his face was covered in a white mask. He also wore dress clothes and a long black cape, with a fedora. Oh Meg, his voice! He had the voice of my angel! It was my angel! And he brought me beneath the opera, to a lake with candles shimmering.  
  
"I sang with him, and then he-" Christine turned red. "He sang to me, and it gave me a queer feeling, and he touched me. When he touched me, I felt.intoxicated." She stopped at my look of horror. "Oh no, nothing like that! I was in my right mind, Meg! I don't drink!"  
  
I prompted, "Then what happened?"  
  
Christine replied, "I don't remember exactly why, but I fainted. When I awoke, he was playing his organ. His hat was off, and I had a clear vision of his mask. I wanted to know why he had a mask, what the purpose was. It couldn't possibly hide his identity. So I crept to the organ, and I tore it off him! There sat the ugliest man I had ever seen! His face.so deformed.horrifying." Tears rose to her eyes as Christine sat in dismay."  
  
I gasped. "Deformed?" I repeated. Monsieur? Never!  
  
"When I unmasked him, it was as though I had unleashed a monster! He chased me around, screaming and cursing at me until I fell. I swear, he could have eaten me! But he fell at my feet, and slowly dragged himself to me, in the dirt.like an animal begging for forgiveness. Meg, he wants me to love him! I can't! I can't love that face!" Christine began to cry. "He let me go, but he is always watching! He will be back for me! I cannot escape him!"  
  
I sat in shock. This revelation about my 'master' caused devastation on my part. A monster? What had I done? What had Christine done?   
  
A/N Hehe a good place to stop. Next time, the song of the singing toad! Woohoo! R&R please! Luv, Kat 


	29. UPDATE

Just a note- this will be updated soon!

Thanks for all of your reviews. Just a few comments-

Feya- Yeah, I know Gaston Leroux created the phantom, but since I am mostly using the phantom's character from the play and since they are such two different characters, I consider my phantoms character a creation of ALW. Also, I am also aware that it is Prima Ballerina (I dance ballet in a company) but in France they reverse and the noun comes first, therefore it is Ballerina Prima.

Enjoy!


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